Everything We've Yet to Break
by Zubeneschamali
Summary: What if Sam and Dean knew one crucial piece of information about the future before Dean's deal came due? Would it have changed everything, or would the end result have been the same? AU version of Season Four, written for spn 30snapshots. COMPLETE.
1. A Little Knowledge

**Title**: Everything We've Yet to Break (1: A Little Knowledge)  
**Author**: Zubeneschamali  
**Rating**: T (language, violence)  
**Spoilers**: through the end of Season Four  
**Summary**: What if Sam and Dean knew one crucial piece of information about the future before Dean's deal came due? Would it have changed everything, or would the end result have been the same? AU version of Season Four, written for spn_30snapshots.

**Disclaimer**: They might be on my mind more hours of the day than not, but they do not belong to me.

**A/N**: In keeping with the challenge of spn_30snapshots, each of the thirty pieces to follow is a scene of less than 1,000 words; taken together, they tell a complete AU of Season Four. Thanks to Kasman for beta reading!

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It's a shame I have to wait until the ending  
Everything I've yet to break is surely bending  
Every vow I ever take is just pretending  
That this mess I make is worth defending  
You can always get it right next time, next time  
You can always get it right next time…  
--"Next Time," Barenaked Ladies

_Esto no va a pasar, esto no va a cambiar  
Esto no va a dejar de ser una tragedia  
La tragedia del que no se quiere  
Esto no va a pasar, esto no va a sanar  
Porque no hay un disparo que pueda borrar la historia__  
Que nos corre por las venas  
Que nos corre por las venas._  
--"Sangre Americana," Bacilos

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**1. A Little Knowledge **(prompt: months)

"I'm sorry it wasn't Dad," Sam said hesitantly, cautious as always when mentioning their father to Dean, even after all this time. Dean had really thought he heard their father's voice on the phone, and Sam could only imagine what it was doing to him now to find out that it had been a trick.

"Yeah, me too." The corner of Dean's mouth twisted up. "Guess he could have told me what to expect down under, huh?"

"Don't talk like that," Sam snapped, feeling his temper wearing thin once again. It was bad enough that the crocatta had separated the two of them and almost sucked the life right out of him in the process, but to come back to this same old topic was like picking a still-healing scab off a wound. "You're not going to Hell, Dean."

"Yes, I am, Sammy." Dean's head lifted, crystal green eyes piercing through Sam. "I know that I am, and you know it, too. I'm going to Hell in two weeks, and I'm getting back out in four and a half months. There's nothing we can do to stop it, so we might as well focus on other things."

"Other things?" Sam's voice was rising, but he was powerless to stop it. "There's nothing that's more important than keeping you alive."

"Sam, please." Dean sounded so tired that Sam had to stop and look at him. "I don't want to spend my last few weeks fighting with you over this. Not when I know it's not gonna be permanent. Not when there's evil things out there we need to be fighting.

"Four and a half months is bad enough," Sam said incredulously. "There's got to be a way—"

"There isn't. I try to break the deal, you die. I go along with it, I get out. Yeah, it's gonna suck, but what can we do?"

Sam stared back at him. The thing was, he _knew_ it was only for four and a half months. He knew it like he knew his name and his birthday and that his mother and almost-fiancée had been killed by the yellow-eyed demon that Dean had plugged after making a deal to resurrect him. He knew it like it was something that had already happened.

But he didn't know _how_ he knew, which meant he couldn't trust the knowledge. Not after being played by the Trickster for so long, not when he didn't have any reason to believe it was true.

"Do you think it's a vision we've both had?" he asked hesitantly.

"You're the one with the visions," Dean retorted. "Have you _seen_ me getting pulled out of Hell?"

Sam shook his head. "I just know that you'll be out," he said. "No specific date, no time or place, just four and a half months."

Dean quirked up the corner of his mouth. "You better have a six-pack and a couple of pies ready for me, Sammy. I'd ask you to keep a hot chick on standby, too, but I'm not sure I trust you to pick one out."

Sam wrinkled up his nose. "I don't think beer and pie really go together."

"I don't think I'm going to care too much at that point," Dean replied with raised eyebrows.

Sam swallowed hard. "Dean, I can't—"

Dean rose to his feet and took a step forward, looking him in the eye. "Let it go, Sam. For me?" He paused and then lifted an eyebrow. "Consider it my last wish if it makes it easier."

Sam pressed his lips together, physically holding back the words, aware that he was producing a prime example of what Dean loved to call his bitchface. He'd been trying all year to find a way out for Dean, and to just give up like this and trust that everything was going to work out for the best was not something either of them was used to doing.

But Dean was the one with his head on the block, and if he could be so calm and accepting of it, maybe Sam could, too. Four and a half months would probably seem like an eternity while they were living it, but there would be a light at the end of the tunnel. Whatever happened, they'd be together at the end of it, and they could work it all out. "Yeah, I'll try," he finally said.

"That's my boy." Dean clapped a hand to his shoulder. "Now, it's time to see what lucky lady in this town is going to help _me_ get lucky tonight." He waggled his eyebrows and headed for the door.

Sam automatically rolled his eyes and followed after. _God, I'm going to miss him_, he thought, realizing that it was the first time he'd allowed himself to think that. He drew in a deep breath as he shut the motel room door behind them, feeling the desperation and urgency of the past eleven months subside to a dull roar in the back of his head.

Yeah, it would suck, but they could make it through. Dean would get out in four and a half months. Everything would be all right.


	2. Letting Go

**2. Letting Go **(prompt: sunset)

"Sam, I want you to promise me something." Dean turned to look at his brother, sitting on the hood of the Impala next to him, an empty beer bottle clasped in his long fingers as he stared out over the empty dirt road.

Sam's eyes were a little red, but not as bad as Dean would have expected, considering what they were doing here. He'd never been to a wake, but he figured this was what one would be like. Well, except it was just the two of them, and he wasn't actually dead yet, but the idea was the same: getting drunk and reminiscing and figuring out how the living were supposed to go on without the dead.

"What's that?" Sam asked, trying unsuccessfully to hide a sniffle.

Dean looked out towards the setting sun, the last one he would see for a while, memorizing the play of orange and pink over the faded green and gold of the tall prairie grasses. "Promise me you're going to leave those freaky powers of yours alone.

There was silence for a moment. Then Sam cleared his throat. "What if I can go after Lilith with them?"

"No!" Dean turned towards him sharply. "Damn it, what part of 'Sam's intestines on a stick' did you not understand? She wiped out that whole police station and everyone in it, there's no way she can't wipe you out, too."

"But if Bela's right, and she holds your contract—"

"Four and a half months, Sam." Dean paused for a moment until Sam turned towards him and looked him in the eye. "Nothing you can do to change that." He pointed his beer bottle at Sam and added, "We know I'm alive and kicking in September. We don't know that you are. So stay the hell away from Lilith. Ruby too, while you're at it."

Sam looked back at him and then nodded, his head bobbing up and down. "Okay," he said quietly. "No powers. No Lilith."

Dean stared back, head twisted slightly to the side and eyes narrowed suspiciously. "That was too easy."

The corner of Sam's mouth quirked up in a not-quite-smile. "Dude, you're going to—you're giving up an awful lot for me. I'm sure I can find something non-demonic to hunt in the meantime."

"Well, good." Dean bumped his shoulder against Sam's and drained the last of his Leinenkugel.

He'd figured that since it didn't matter where he was when the deal came due, they'd come to South Dakota, the closest thing they had to home, so that Sam would have someone with him…_after_. They'd explained everything to Bobby, and if Sam had been skeptical about this foreknowledge of Dean's rescue from Hell, Bobby was downright disbelieving. But eventually he'd come around, figuring that if the two of them were crazy enough to believe something so implausible so completely, he might as well do it, too.

"You stick close to Bobby, okay?" Dean went on. "You guys gotta watch out for each other."

"You wanna write down a list for me or something?" Sam asked, the caustic comment weakened somewhat by the wobble in his voice.

"Naw, there's only one more thing." This time when Sam raised his head, his eyes were more than a little red, but Dean went on, "You're going to leave me here and go back to Bobby's before midnight."

Sam was shaking his head before the sentence was out of Dean's mouth. "No way. I'm staying here with you."

"Sam, I don't want—"

"I'm. Not. Leaving." Sam's eyes were hard and bright, the last rays of the setting sun making them flash. "You're not going to be alone, Dean. Not here. Not ever."

On any other occasion, he'd have a snappy comeback ready to take the emotion down a notch or two, but somehow he couldn't manage it this time. "All right," Dean acquiesced, tossing the empty bottle into the weeds at the side of the road, trying to pretend that he wasn't grateful for the company. The way he was half-leaning into Sam probably gave it away, though, but his brother shifted slightly so he was pressed against him just as hard, the closest they ever came to hugging each other.

Hours later, as razor-sharp claws tore into his chest and the sweet, coppery tang of his own blood filled his nostrils, Dean held tight to the image of the prairie sunset and the warmth of Sam's shoulder against his, even as he let go of his own life and sank down into absolute, terrifying blackness.


	3. Summer Rain

3. **Summer Rain** (26: summer)

A drop of sweat fell onto the barrel of the neatly-disassembled shotgun, and Sam wiped it clean with the rag. After bringing up the hem of his thin white t-shirt to wipe his forehead, his hands moved automatically through the motions of cleaning and reassembling the weapon. The satisfying sound of the pieces sliding into place was a touch of home, a promise that he'd only be doing this for three and a half more months, and then Dean could have one of his favorite jobs back.

The windows were open in their battered metal frames—sills carefully salted—as was the outside door, though only the feeblest of breezes was making its way in. North Texas in June was not his idea of a good time, but thankfully it was only a one-man job. After today's research and scouting, Sam had no doubt that a quick salt-and-burn tonight would have him back on the road before morning. His bags were already packed and in the Impala, the shotgun only out to give him something to do while he waited for nightfall. The distant rumble of thunder offered the tantalizing hope of a break in the heat, but he wasn't counting on it.

"Well, isn't this cozy?"

Sam was on his feet with the shotgun pointed at the open door in a second. The blonde in the doorway looked as cool as ever, slender arms crossed over her chest and slitted eyes narrowed at him.

"Ruby," he said flatly. He lowered the gun. "What do you want?"

"Can't a girl check up on an old friend, see how he's doing after the loss of his big brother?" Her neatly-plucked eyebrows went up, her expression a poor imitation of innocence.

"I'm fine," he snapped back.

"Sure you are." She looked around the room. "Wow, you really haven't changed a thing, have you?"

"What do you want?" Sam demanded again.

"Fine, we'll get down to business." Ruby pointedly looked down at the white line across the door.

He frowned and reluctantly came forward a few steps to scratch a thin path through the salt with his foot. Ruby gave an exaggerated nod of thanks and strode in. "Before you ask, no, I can't get Dean back for you," she threw over her shoulder.

"Then what do you want?" Sam snarled. He might have the assurance that Dean's sojourn in Hell was only temporary, but every time he thought of what might be happening down there, he had to work hard to remind himself of his promise to stick it out until September without trying anything rash.

"I can get you something else," Ruby said coyly. "The demon who had Dean's contract."

"Lilith?" he asked.

Her eyes narrowed further. "How did you know that?"

Sam tilted his head to the side. "I thought she was too powerful for me to face."

Ruby reached out and tapped a finger on the center of his chest, her nail sharp through his thin shirt. "You have no idea what's inside of you, Sam. With a little practice, I can get you ready to take out Lilith, put her down for good. I'm sorry that Dean's gone, but you can still get revenge for him."

He looked down at her, trying to read something, anything, behind her cool green eyes. "I'm not interested," he finally said, taking a step back.

"Excuse me?" Ruby put her hands on her hips. "What, did you decide you really wanted Dean out of the way after all—"

Sam's fist connected with her jaw before she could finish the words. She fell back on the bed but was up again in a second, striking a solid blow to his solar plexus that had him doubling over. Her follow-up kick caught him in the ribs, sending him stumbling backwards against the wall.

When Sam looked up, he saw Ruby examining him more carefully than he could ever remember her doing. "You know something," she said sharply. "Something you didn't the last time I saw you."

Before she could figure out anything else, Sam lunged forward with a quick one-two that sent Ruby's head snapping back. He kept moving forward, plowing a shoulder into her gut and sending her sprawling onto the empty bed, the one nearest the door.

Quick as lightning, Sam rolled forward over his shoulder, closing his hand around the handle of the knife strapped to her thigh. He pulled it free as he came to his feet between the two beds and turned back to face the demon, whose eyes had gone black once she looked up.

Above the bed, a sheet was pinned to the ceiling, black marker demarcating a devil's trap. It had become as much a part of his nightly ritual as salting the entrances to the room, a way of putting something at his back while his brother was gone. He'd have to make another one now, but damn, this was worth it.

"You have no idea what you're doing, Sam," Ruby snarled, rising to her hands and knees.

"Maybe not, but I know I'm not doing it with you," he shot back. "You lied to me all along, Ruby, if you knew Lilith was the one who had Dean's contract. Which means there's no way you're telling me the whole truth now. And I've had enough."

"Sam, you can't—" she began, but he was already moving, gathering up the last of the gun kit before closing the windows and slamming the door behind him.

As Sam moved towards the Impala, the sun slid behind dark clouds, the oven-like heat already beginning to fade. And as he pulled out of the dusty parking lot, the first drops of rain began to fall, the thirsty ground soaking them up like a blessing.


	4. Inferno

**4. Inferno **(13: future)

It wasn't like there was a calendar on the wall, or even a clock. It wasn't like there was a wall. Time was measured in the slow peel of skin from bloody flesh, or the breaking of two hundred and six bones, one by one.

Dean had long ago lost track of all of the different forms of pain he'd been subjected to, all of the ways he'd been torn apart and blacked out in agony only to find himself whole and unbroken when he lurched back to whatever passed for consciousness when you were dead. He repeated in his head, over and over, _four and a half months, four and a half months_, as a mantra against the horrors around him. When the terror and torture were too much to keep at bay, he settled for _September, September, September_. The promise of being reunited with Sam and delivered from the Pit was the faintest, tiniest light at the end of the hellishly dark tunnel that stretched out before him.

After a while, he forgot what the mantra meant. But sometimes when he whispered the words to himself, he remembered their meaning, and he began to wonder. Surely it had been long enough already. Surely he'd been here for eighteen weeks, twenty, even. Surely he was getting out of here any day now.

But the days passed, and the stench of his own blood no longer bothered him, and the demons had to get more and more creative to wring a scream out of him, and he knew that even if four and a half months ended tomorrow, his mind and soul were never going to be the same.

Then one day, a new demon appeared, brandishing a slender blade like it was an extension of his body. "Hello, Dean," he purred. "My name is Alastair. I've been looking forward to meeting you."

"Yeah?" Dean lifted his eyebrows. "Hope you haven't had to stand in line too long."

"Oh, it's only heightened the anticipation." The demon's voice was high-pitched but still male, deeper than nails on a chalkboard but with the same piercing quality. "Besides, I wanted to be the one to commemorate this…special occasion." He paused and then said, "It's your birthday, Dean. I hope you don't mind the lack of a cake, but I have something special for you instead." He held up the knife and slowly licked his lips.

Fear twisted inside of Dean, sharp and urgent in a way he hadn't felt in…a long time. "My birthday?" he asked sharply. January was way, way past September. He was supposed to be out of here by now.

"Not the one you're used to celebrating. More like an anniversary. You see, it's been one year since you arrived, and I've been waiting to meet you all this time."

Dean stared back, horrified. "A year?"

"Mmm, time flies when you're having fun, doesn't it?" Alastair brought the knife forward, setting the tip just under Dean's left eye. "Let's have some fun together, you and I."

He hardly noticed the physical pain, lost in the torment of having the one thing he had counted on—the surety that this was going to end, that he could endure for just a little while longer—ripped away as fiercely as any of his flesh and bones had been over the last _twelve fucking months_. The future loomed before him, no longer a feeble beacon of hope, but a darker-than-black promise that the joke had been on him, that _this_ was his eternity.

The next time the knife sank in, Dean let out a scream that was as full of bleak despair as any that had ever resounded in that chamber.

Every demon who heard it smiled.


	5. Day is Done

**5. Day is Done** (27: today)

Night had fallen by the time Bobby's house was in some semblance of order, empty shotgun shells collected off the floor, books and papers back in their semi-stable piles instead of strewn everywhere, and their own wounds cleaned and bandaged. Bobby tapped his longneck across Sam's in salute, and they sat in silence for a moment on the steps, listening to the July symphony of cicadas as they looked out over the junkyard where they'd both literally faced down their own ghosts throughout the course of the day.

Sam cleared his throat. "So, uh, I guess the fact that the ritual worked means this really was that Rising of the Witnesses that you were talking about, huh?"

"'Fraid so." Bobby took a swig of beer. "Damn, I wish your brother was here."

"Me too," Sam said quietly. He rolled the bottle back and forth in his hands, the gauze wrapped over one palm dulling the sensation of the cool glass on his skin. It had been so close in there, so very nearly ending in disaster with spirits popping up faster than Sam could shoot them down. If he hadn't dodged the heavy table heading for him, he'd have been trapped against the wall and unable to defend Bobby, and then they both would have been lost. In addition to the constant ache of missing Dean, dulled only fractionally after three months without him, it would have been so much easier today with another hunter.

"Yeah, I know, kid." Bobby's gruff voice softened a bit. "Makes me worried, though."

"Me too," Sam replied with his head down. "There's still two months left."

"You sure about that?" came the sharp reply.

He nodded. It was the first thing he thought about every morning when he woke up, the last thing on his mind as he fell asleep. "It hasn't changed."

Bobby shook his head. "Let's hope it stays that way." He took a long pull from his bottle. "Because if this was one of the signs of the Apocalypse, it didn't just start at random. Something pretty heavy had to go down, probably in the same place Dean's in, and God help him if he's caught up in it somehow."

Sam shuddered. He couldn't imagine what it would take to set off the chain of events leading to the End of Days, but the thought of Dean being caught in the crossfire somehow was horrifying. "You think he's—" _all right_ was a dumb thing to say, given the circumstances, even if it was what he meant.

"Your brother's one of the strongest men I've ever known." Bobby clapped a hand on his shoulder. "You both are. You're gonna come out of this all right."

"I hope so," Sam muttered into the mouth of his bottle. Today was probably only a preview of coming attractions, and he needed his brother with him to face whatever might be coming.

Especially if it was the end of the world.


	6. Break of Day

**6. Break of Day **(18: sunrise)

It was dark. Dark and quiet, and Dean didn't know whether to be afraid of the former or grateful for the latter.

A moment later, when he had dug his lighter out of his pocket and a tiny, flickering light was illuminating rough-hewn walls tight around him, he decided on the former. "What the hell," he muttered, or tried to mutter. His voice was dry and raspy as if he'd been screaming for days.

Since the last thing he remembered was hellhounds rending his flesh, that might not be too far from the truth.

Figuring there was no way to go but up, he tore experimentally at the wooden boards above him. When a shower of dirt rained down, he started clawing faster, trying to override the primitive part of his brain that was panicking at _dark tight trapped_ by digging upward, aiming for _light sky free_ instead.

When he felt cool air blowing across his outstretched hand, he almost wept in relief.

A moment later, Dean was standing beside his grave, brushing dirt off himself, looking around in bewilderment at the trees leveled in a neat circle all around him. They were familiar pine trees, like the ones behind Bobby's place, although since they looked like a pile of toothpicks, he couldn't recognize the exact spot.

The early morning sunlight on his face nearly blinded him as it peeked over the remaining treetops, but he closed his eyes and soaked it up like rain on cracked earth. The faint warmth was delicious against his cold skin, the wind too brisk for a May morning, and his stomach sank a little when he realized he had no idea _when_ he was, much less where he was.

When Dean turned in a slow circle and saw the two figures crumpled at the edge of the circle of blown-out trees, his stomach dropped all the way down.

He was beside them in seconds, kneeling over the tall, shaggy-haired man first, pressing two fingers to his throat and letting out a gusty sigh of relief when he felt a pulse. "Sammy," he forced out through his croaking throat. "Sam, come on, wake up."

It took a few minutes and a rough shake to the shoulder, but soon Sam was blinking up at him, dazed for a moment until recognition set in. Then he was sitting up fast enough that Dean had to duck out of the way or risk being head-butted. "Dean!" Sam exclaimed, octopus arms instantly wrapping tightly around him as Sam buried his face in Dean's t-shirted chest. "Oh, my God. Dean."

"Yeah," Dean replied, returning the embrace and breathing in the scents of dirt and grass and _Sam_ and wondering if he'd ever felt so grateful in his entire life. They stayed that way for a few heartbeats, and then he asked roughly, "So were we right?"

"What?" Sam sniffled and pulled back slightly, keeping his face turned away as he brought the back of his hand up to his face and gave it a quick swipe. "Uh, yeah. It's the middle of September. We didn't know when you were coming back exactly, so we've been keeping an eye out, and then last night there was this burst of light and a sound like a bomb going off, but—" He broke off and turned away. "Shit! Bobby!"

The older man was out cold, but it only took a moment of shaking to rouse him. When he saw Dean, he reacted the same way as Sam, although the hug was thankfully briefer. "God, it's good to see you, boy," Bobby murmured against Dean's shoulder.

"You too," Dean said with a pat to his back. "You, uh, mind telling me what I've missed?"

"In a minute, son." Bobby released him. "Gotta check some things out first."

After he passed all of the necessary tests, including walking into a very impressive iron-lined panic room and drinking multiple shots of holy water, they filled him in on the Witnesses and their implications. When they were done, Dean rubbed a hand over his face. "Besides that, the big question is, what got me out?"

Bobby shrugged. "You don't remember anything?"

"I remember being a hellhound's chew toy." He shrugged one shoulder. "Then, lights out."

Sam shuddered, and Dean quickly looked over at him. "You didn't have anything to do with this, did you?" he asked.

"What? No!" Sam looked him in the eye. "I told Ruby where to shove it and never looked back.

"Good to hear," Dean replied. "Doesn't answer the question, though."

"Maybe we shouldn't question it," Sam said in a small voice. "I mean, if it's the same thing as whatever told us it was for four and a half months, maybe we shouldn't look into it, you know?"

"What, in case it changes its mind?" Dean asked. When Sam shrugged, he went on, "Yeah, maybe we got bigger fish to fry. Or keep from being fried."

Later that night, when Dean undressed and saw the angry red handprint on his shoulder, it almost freaked him out enough to go storming back downstairs and demand that they figure out what the hell had put it there right the hell now. But maybe Sam was right.

Maybe they shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth.


	7. Double Back

**7. Double Back** (03: past)

Sam wasn't sure what woke him, but when his eyes flew open in the darkened motel room, he could make out a man in a light-colored trenchcoat moving towards Dean, one hand reaching out with two fingers extended.

"Hey!" Sam barked, fumbling under his pillow.

The man turned toward him, and Sam grabbed a hold of Ruby's knife and just as swiftly released it. It wasn't exactly made to be a throwing knife, but he'd had to practice something during the long summer months, and the weapon flew straight and true, the blade embedding itself solidly in the man's chest.

He stood there calmly, blinking down at the hilt before lifting his head to regard Sam with a curiously indifferent expression.

"What the hell?" Dean had woken up and scrambled backward, reaching for the flask of holy water on the nightstand. When he flung it at the man, he merely shook it off, water dripping from his dark, untidy hair.

Sam mentally ran through a list of what could cross salt lines and devil's traps _and_ be unaffected by holy water and the knife, and came up empty. What in the hell was this thing, and how could they fight it?

"What are you?" Dean demanded in a low voice.

The man answered without hesitation. "I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition."

Sam blinked. "You got him out of Hell?" he asked incredulously.

He got a look that made him feel about as significant as a head louse before the man turned away. "You must come with me, Dean."

"Not till you tell me what you are." Dean's eyes skittered over the gun on the nightstand before moving on, obviously figuring that it wouldn't do any good against something with a demon-killing knife protruding from its chest.

"My name is Castiel," the man replied, head cocked to the side. "I am an angel of the Lord."

Sam did _not_ squeak, "An angel?"

Dean's eyes shot to his, skepticism written all over his face. _Angels don't exist._

Sam raised his eyebrows. _What else had the power to bring you back._

Dean frowned. _Yeah, but come on. An angel?_

"This is your problem, Dean. You have no faith."

It had been a clear night outside, but the sudden flash of lightning through the shabby curtains threw the room into stark relief, and the dark shadow of wings rose along the far wall.

Shocked, Sam looked at his brother to see the mixture of disbelief and confusion remaining. "Why would an angel rescue me from Hell?" Dean asked, his words bitten off.

Castiel pulled the knife out and tossed it onto Dean's bed. "Because you have to stop it."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Stop what?"

The bright blue eyes flickered to Sam and back. "You have to stop him."

Dean's voice took on a dangerous edge as ice rippled down Sam's spine. "Stop _who_, you cryptic son of a bitch?"

"There are things that you do not know, Dean." Another quick glance at Sam, and then, "It will be easier to show you."

"What do you—"

Before Dean could finish, Castiel lunged over the bed and pressed two fingers to Dean's forehead. Sam let out a shout as they both disappeared, only the faint flutter of wings marking their departure.

He sat there, frozen. Had an _angel _just kidnapped Dean? And what mysterious "things" was he talking about? Was this the same information that had led their father to make that final, horrible demand of Dean?

Sam suddenly felt terribly alone.

It couldn't have been more than sixty seconds before they were back, Dean looking somewhat worse for the wear, Castiel no more or less rumpled than he had been. Sam shot to his feet. "What's going on here?" he demanded. "Where did you go?"

"Did you know, Sam?" Dean's quiet demand cut through the darkened room.

Sam stared at him. "Did I know what?"

"He knows what Azazel did to him," Castiel's raspy voice broke in. "So did we. But what we don't know is why. That is what we were hoping you could find out."

Sam drew in a sharp breath. So Dean had been told about his demon blood. No wonder he was staring at him with a look of betrayal and revulsion. "He told me in Cold Oak," he said hesitantly. "He showed me what happened the night Mom died. Is that what you—" He jerked his head at Castiel, never taking his eyes off his brother's.

"Something like that," Dean replied before rubbing a hand over his jaw. "What the hell, Sam? You didn't think that little detail was worth mentioning?"

"That I've got demon blood in me? That I'm a whole new level of freak?" He took a step forward. "And when should I have done that, huh? Right after you told me you'd sold your _soul_ for me? Maybe after you got back? 'Thanks for going to Hell for me, Dean, too bad I'm not actually human.'"

"Oh, knock it off. Of course you're human." The sideways glance at Castiel didn't go unnoticed, and Sam let out a disbelieving huff.

"You _are_ human, if tainted," Castiel said in what was apparently meant to be a reassuring tone. "But there is a dark road that lies ahead of you, Samuel Winchester, and you must make sure you do not walk it." He turned to Dean. "_You_ must make sure he does not walk it. Or we will."

And with that, he was gone.

The brothers stared at each other for a moment. "Dude, where did he take you?" Sam finally asked.

Dean let out a gust of breath. "More like 'when'," he said. At Sam's confused look, he shook his head and sat down. "You want me to start with the time travel or the sixty-six seals?"

Sam's eyebrows shot up. Apparently it was going to be a long night.


	8. Total Eclipse of the Heart

**8. Total Eclipse of the Heart** (25: eclipse)

The crushing weight lifted from his chest, and Dean gasped in a mouthful of air.

An instant later, he despairingly wished that the heart attack driven by the fear virus had actually killed him. Because it might have only been a vision of Lilith he'd seen a few minutes ago, her childish _ba-boom, ba-boom!_ still echoing in his ears, but she'd been right. Every detail, every one of the agonies and torments he'd suffered and inflicted in Hell was flashing across his vision in gruesome detail, eclipsing the relief of being alive with the blinding despair of what he'd done.

He relived over fifteen years of unimaginable torture shadowed by the betrayal of his own mind, the hope of enduring for four and a half months ripped away like gobbets of his own flesh. He'd tried so hard after that, tried so long to hold out, but the realization that it was never going to end had eventually worn him down into a paper-thin husk that one evening whispered, "Yes," and took up the knife.

Remembering the things he'd done over the following twenty-five years, the outright _pleasure_ he'd taken in carving and mutilating and hacking, Dean was amazed that he'd been able to drink Bobby's holy water without bursting into flame. If that didn't turn a man into a demon, what did?

Even stopping these seals of Castiel's from breaking wouldn't be enough to wash all that away. He was damned all over again.

Another thought slowly pushed its way through the fog of his anguish and agony, giving him a grim sense of purpose. When he found the bastard that tricked him into thinking he was going to have a reprieve, whatever it was, it was dead meat. It couldn't be Castiel—he had only looked confused when Dean questioned him on the topic, and he doubted that an angel of the Lord could lie. Maybe it had been the Trickster, although altering reality rather than thoughts seemed to be his style.

His best guess was a demon—maybe Ruby, maybe Meg, maybe someone else they'd encountered along the way, wanting to plant false hope and watch as he went down in flames. Literally.

Dean clenched his jaw. He was going to figure it out, goddamn it. And then he was going to make the son of a bitch wish he'd never been born.

Right now, it was the only thing he had to live for.


	9. Por las Venas

**9. Por las Venas** (12: night)

It was a quick decision, to send Dean towards the trapped trick-or-treaters in the dark mausoleum while he headed on towards the demon Samhain, but Sam felt like it was the right thing to do. He was the one with the knife tucked in his belt, and Dean had been…_off_ lately.

Ever since he'd faced his impending demise from the ghost sickness, Dean had been different. Sam supposed it was the consequence of his too-near brush with death; after all, they didn't know if Dean was hell-bound if he died yet again. He'd refused to tell Sam what his hallucinations had consisted of, although given what he'd shared about Castiel's concerns over Sam putting his demon blood to bad use, Sam could guess.

Sam shook his head and forced aside the dark thoughts. He needed to concentrate here, or his future would be much even limited.

He rounded a corner, and there was Samhain, facing him across a small, stone-walled chamber with stained-glass windows. Before Sam could move, the demon had raised a hand towards him, white-hot light filling the room and shooting straight at him.

Terrified, Sam threw his arms over his face in a futile attempt at defense, waiting to feel heat scorching him or burning the skin from his bones. _I'm sorry, Dean_, he shouted in his mind, further horrified at the thought of his brother finding his charred remains.

But nothing happened.

Sam cracked one eye open to stare through his crossed arms at Samhain, who seemed to be just as confused as he was. Slowly, he lowered his arms, and when the demon tried again, a ferocious expression on his face, Sam barely flinched. Instead, he drew the knife and started forward, not knowing what the hell was going on but realizing he'd better take advantage of it.

Unfortunately, the rest of the demon's powers worked just fine.

Within seconds, Sam was flying across the room, the knife slipping from his hand, his back landing against the stone wall with a thump that jarred his teeth. He couldn't move a muscle as Samhain strode forward, his eerily vacant eyes fixed on Sam, thin lips twisted in triumph.

The ancient demon raised his hand again, and this time there was no light, but Sam felt something tightening around his neck, choking off his breath. He gurgled helplessly, feeling his throat closing shut, his chest working furiously to draw air into his starving lungs.

The demon stepped closer, his head cocked almost curiously to the side. Sam suddenly felt something throbbing underneath his skin, like his pulse was doing double-time, and it wasn't because of the lack of oxygen. It was like something was crawling way down deep under his skin, and it would have seriously creeped him out if he wasn't already fighting for his life.

Samhain looked almost afraid for a moment, and then he must have seen Sam struggling to draw a breath, for his confident look returned. He started to close his fingers into a fist, and Sam somehow knew that when the gesture was finished, his own neck would snap like a twig.

Right when he thought things couldn't get any worse, he looked up to see Dean in the doorway, eyes wide with disbelief. Sam wanted to shout a warning, but no sound could pass through his tightening throat. All he could do was watch as Dean bent down, picked up Ruby's knife, and with a _here goes nothing_ look, hurled it end-over-end at the demon's exposed back.

Samhain must have sensed the movement, for he whirled around, his grip on Sam loosening enough that he was able to gasp in a lungful of much-needed air. But the demon couldn't completely get out of the way, and the knife sank into his thigh with a dull thump.

Sam quickly turned away as orange light silhouetted the man's form. But for all that it looked like fire, it didn't put forth any heat, and he looked back in time to see the last of the embers die and the teacher's face relax into death.

"Toldja you couldn't handle him on your own," Dean grumbled, pulling the knife out and wiping it clean on the dead man's shirt.

Sam shook his head. If Dean had led the way, he'd have been charred to a crisp the instant Samhain saw him. But for some reason, Sam had been safe.

Rather than deal with the implications of that, he asked, "You get all the kids out?"

Something flickered across Dean's face. "The zombies got one before I could get the gate open."

"Zombies?" Sam's eyebrows shot up. "Dude, you've been waiting for ages to go up against real live zombies. Or real _dead_ zombies, I guess."

"Yeah, well, it wasn't all it was cracked up to be." Dean abruptly sheathed the knife and whirled on his heel. "C'mon, let's blow this joint."

Sam gave the corpse on the ground one last look before following his brother out into the Halloween darkness. As the cool night air rushed over his heated face, he struggled with the question of whether or not to tell Dean everything that had transpired.

If Dean was going to keep his secrets, shouldn't Sam get to as well?


	10. Dia de los Inocentes

**10. Día de los Inocentes** (11: autumn)

Dean looked out over the playground, watching the shrieking children shedding their winter coats as the early November sun grew steadily warmer. The leaves were mostly gone from the trees, but a few stubborn shreds of orange and red still hung here and there. _Stubborn bastards don't know when their time is up,_ he thought with no small amount of irony.

Underneath the shuffle of fallen leaves being blown about by the wind, he heard a different kind of rustle, and he was unsurprised a second later to see out of the corner of his eye that Castiel was sitting on the bench next to him. The angel and his buddy Uriel had been nothing but pains in the asses the past few days, acting ridiculously rude to Sam when he showed nothing but deference to them, and insisting that wiping out an entire town was the right way to do things.

Instead, he and Sam had failed spectacularly at keeping the seal intact, only barely managing to kill Samhain and keep him from terrorizing the town.

"You here to say 'I told you so'?" he asked sharply.

"I am not here to judge you, Dean," Castiel calmly replied.

"Then why are you here?" Dean instantly asked.

There was a short pause. "Our orders were not to stop the summoning of Samhain. They were to do whatever you told us to do."

Dean stared back at him. "Your orders were to follow my orders?"

"It was a test," Castiel said. "To see how you would perform under…battlefield conditions, you might say."

Dean shook his head and turned away to look at the kids on the swings. "You're really the one who got me out of Hell?"

"It is my handprint on your shoulder," came the reply in that same level voice.

Dean repressed a shiver. "So you saw what I did down there?" he asked roughly.

Castiel paused again, this time as if weighing his words. "Dean, I wish with all of my heart that I had been able to get to you sooner. You should not have had to endure the things that you did, but…it was not an easy thing to find you."

He let out a huff of breath and said bitterly, "You would have had to get to me a hell of a lot sooner to keep _me_ from enduring anything."

"What you _endured_ was not only what was inflicted upon you. It was also what you were forced to do to others."

"I wasn't forced to do anything." Dean met the bright blue eyes, finding it hard not to flinch at the compassion they showed. "It was _my_ choice to get off that rack. My decision. So if you're looking for a general, someone who's going to lead on the battlefield, someone who's going to be able to tell _angels_ what to do…" Dean trailed off and shook his head. "You better look somewhere else, buddy. 'Cause that's not me."

Castiel looked confused. "If you are concerned that your judgment is flawed—"

"My judgment?" he practically shouted. "You're damn right it's flawed." Suddenly aware of the proximity of a young mother pushing a stroller, he lowered his voice and leaned closer to Castiel. "Listen, you want to fuck something up, you hand it to me. Otherwise, find yourself another soldier."

There was silence. Then Castiel turned to look at the playground. "According to the Catholic tradition, today and tomorrow are All Saints' and All Souls' Day. The merging of this tradition with the beliefs of the indigenous Mexican population led to the two-day celebration of El Día de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead."

Dean stared at his profile, bewildered. "Thanks for the anthropology lesson."

"The first day is known as Día de los Inocentes, the Day of the Innocents." Castiel inclined his head towards the children laughing on the merry-go-round. "Their souls would be among those celebrated this very day if not for you."

"And Sam," Dean automatically added.

Castiel nodded, only slightly reluctantly. "And your brother. So do not speak to me about your flawed decision-making abilities, Dean. There are one thousand, two hundred and fourteen people alive today because of you, two hundred and sixty-eight of whom are children."

He couldn't let that small victory erase the horror of what he'd done. "And one less seal that keeps Lucifer locked away."

"There are other seals. We did not expect to keep them all intact, but we must fight as if every one was the last." Castiel turned to look at him again, his dark hair ruffled slightly by the autumn wind. "I have faith in you, Dean," he said simply.

The next time he turned his head, Dean was alone on the bench, only the dry rustle of dead leaves beside him.


	11. Present Tense

Disclaimer and author's notes are in the first chapter. Thanks to the (three?) people who are still reading this; I appreciate it!

**11. Present Tense** (08: present)

Sam walked down the sidewalk of Concrete, WA, absently rubbing at a sore spot on his lower back and noticing the sharp tang of ozone lingering in the air. The coin had been retrieved, the wishing well un-enchanted, and everything was being set back to rights. A quick call to Dean had assured him that everything was okay, and Dean's instructions to "melt down that fucking coin, now," were on their way to being carried out.

It took about twenty minutes of driving, but Sam found a turnoff in the Cascades National Forest leading to a secluded trailhead, and ten more minutes of walking down an overgrown path assured him that no one would be coming out this way to see the fire he was building. It would take a while for the heat to build up enough to melt metal, but the fallen needles and resin-filled branches from the proliferation of conifers would help with that.

Sam cleared a space within spitting distance of a stream, stacked his kindling, and flicked on his lighter. A cheery little blaze was soon burning, throwing off welcome heat in the dark interior of the forest, and Sam pulled the coin out of his pocket and studied it while he waited.

_Such a little thing_, he thought. _So much trouble from such a little thing._

He wondered for a moment why Dean had insisted he be the one to melt the coin down. His big brother rarely missed the opportunity to be part of anything involving fire, but he'd expressed no interest at all. Sam wondered idly if he thought the coin was too much of a temptation, that if he had it in hand he'd use it to make a wish for something more serious than a sandwich.

Earlier in the day, Sam's retort had been to wish for Lilith's head on a plate—bloody—and the thought crossed his mind that he could do it, right here and now. There was a small pool where the rushing stream curled back on itself, a quiet space in the bubbling water. He could drop the coin in, make one last wish, and then melt it down.

Sam was actually kneeling by the stream bank before he mentally slapped himself and stood up. "No," he said out loud. How many examples had he just seen of wishes gone bad, of people getting exactly what they asked for but in a strange and twisted way? If he wished for Lilith's head, he'd probably get the rest of her along with it, or something bigger and badder than her delivering it, or something else he couldn't imagine. No, he couldn't risk it.

Dean's face flashed through his mind, confusion and astonishment written in equal measure as he heard Sam's wish. Sam knew that Dean expected him to say he wished for a normal, demon-free life with Jessica, but that wasn't him anymore. The thought that Sam's deepest desire had something to do with making things okay for Dean was apparently more than the older man could comprehend. Especially now that it was clear that he _did_ remember what had happened to him in the Pit, given the way he wasn't sleeping and _was_ drinking.

For a moment, Sam wished fiercely that he could take it all away, that he could make it so Dean had never gone to Hell.

The edge of the coin cut sharply into his hand, and he almost dropped it. "No," he said out loud. "That wasn't a wish." Even though the cursed object hadn't been in the water, he didn't want to risk it.

Then something struck him. Everyone who'd had their wish come true—badly—had wished for something for themselves. What if he wished for something for Dean instead?

Sam's mind raced. Wishing for Dean to never have gone to Hell could easily backfire—Sam could wind up dead in a heartbeat. Likewise, asking for Dean to forget his memories of Hell might well erase more from his mind than the four and a half months between May and September, which was not—

And then it hit him like the lightning bolt had earlier in the day. "Four and a half months," Sam said aloud, hearing the wonder in his voice.

That was it. All this time, he'd been wondering how he knew Dean's damnation was only temporary, and the answer had been in him this whole time. It wasn't a taunting demon, it wasn't a manipulative angel or Trickster. _Sam_ was the one who made it so he and his brother knew there would be an end to the torment, that they just had to hold on for a little while longer. All he had to do was bend down and put the coin in the pool of water beside the stream, make his wish, and then toss the coin into the fire.

For once, it really was that simple.

Five minutes later, Sam watched the worn design on the surface of the coin shimmer and fade as the heat of the flames began to melt it. Something felt _right_ in his head, like he had closed a loop that had been hanging open for months, the past and present finally joining together into something that made sense and answered the question that had been nagging him for months.

He let out a deep breath and watched the fire burn. When he got back to town, he'd tell Dean what he'd done and that the mystery was solved. Maybe that would get Dean to open up to him, at least a little.

His brother was obviously hurting, and there was nothing Sam wouldn't do to help him.


	12. Falls the Shadow

**12. Falls the Shadow** (prompt 19: years)

"You did what?"

Dean hardly recognized his own voice, cold and dark as it was, and it seemed to be even more of a surprise to Sam. His little brother actually stuttered as he replied, "It—it was me, Dean. I—I'm the one who made it happen, made us know that it would only be four and a half months."

His hands curled into fists at his sides. "Do you have any idea what you've done? Any fucking clue, Sam?"

Sam looked bewildered. "I had to, Dean. It's what kept me from listening to Ruby about getting revenge on Lilith, it's what kept me and Bobby going all summer. I didn't realize it until just now, when I was out there with the coin in my hand, but then I _had_ to do it."

His hands were knotted in Sam's jacket before he was aware of moving, shoving his brother hard up against the wooden railing of the dock. "You stupid, stupid son of a bitch," he ground out. "You don't even know, do you?"

_Of course he doesn't know_, snapped a voice in Dean's head. _You haven't told him shit._

_Don't you blame this on me,_ he barked back, and the voice stayed silent.

He forced himself to loosen his hold on Sam and looked around to make sure no one had noticed them. The townspeople still seemed to be wandering around in a daze, shaking off the vestiges of their wishes, paying no attention to the two strangers exchanging heated words in their midst

"Dean, what is it?" Sam asked in a low voice. "What haven't you told me?"

He rubbed a hand over his jaw and stepped back. Sam wanted to know? Fine. Like a band-aid, it was probably better just to rip it off. "Time doesn't pass the same way in Hell that it does up here, Sammy." He paused long enough to note the dawning horror in Sam's eyes and went on, "I waited for four and a half months, all right. And then I waited again. And again, and again."

Sam's face had gone pale. "How long were you there?" he whispered.

Dean let this instant, this one moment where he knew the full horror and Sam didn't, stretch out as long as he could. Then he let out a deep sigh. "Forty years."

Any remaining blood rushed from Sam's face, and he reached back to steady himself on the railing. "Forty years?" he breathed out. When Dean gave a short nod, he slowly shook his head. "I had no idea, Dean. I can't even…My God, I'm so sorry."

"Yeah, you should be." Dean looked out across the water, bracing himself for what was coming next. "Because if I hadn't _known_ I was getting out, it might have been a whole lot different when I finally gave in."

He heard a sharp inhale from Sam's direction. "What do you mean, 'gave in'?"

In a few short, sharp sentences, Dean sketched out his time on the rack, the daily offer from a demon named Alastair, and the fourteen years that he'd lasted after realizing his promised reprieve was all a lie. He talked like it had happened to someone else, like he was reciting a history that wasn't his, because it was the only way to keep from screaming out loud at what he now knew.

He was even more brusque in describing the twenty-five years that had come after, almost as long as he'd been alive above ground, during which he'd not only been Alastair's favorite pupil, he'd eventually taken on students of his own. All the time, Sam's face grew more and more drawn, his expression clearly torn between horror at what he was hearing and misery at the thought that he had been responsible for it.

Dean finally finished, and silence fell. Then Sam took a deep breath and started, "Dean, I…I never would have done it if I'd known—"

"What, if I'd already done the sharing and caring thing with you, then you wouldn't have made the wish?" Dean scoffed. His earlier anger was evaporating in the full light of what Sam now knew about who and what he was, leaving blankness in its place. "You had to, since you made it in the first place. Or we'd all disappear into a black hole or something."

"That's not how it works," Sam muttered.

"Whatever." Dean shrugged, still looking away. "The point is, it's done. You can't change it."

"Dean, I—" Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam lift a hand as if to put it on his shoulder before lowering it again. "I'm sorry," he said almost inaudibly.

Dean opened his mouth, ready to say something about how he knew that Sam was only trying to help, or that "sorry" wasn't remotely good enough, or that it's not like he would have held out for forty years anyway.

But ever since he remembered everything that had happened—_everything_—he'd been desperately holding onto the thought that he was going to find the son of a bitch who had done this to him and take out all of his pain and misery on him.

Except now that he knew…there wasn't anything he could do about it.

"It doesn't matter," Dean said instead, turning away.

"Of course it matters—"

"Sam, let's just get out of here." He shrugged deeper into his jacket and strode away, feeling the weight of his brother's eyes on his back, wondering how long it would take before he'd be able to look him in the eye again.

If he ever would.


	13. Morning Has Broken

**13. Morning Has Broken **(prompt 2: morning)

"Dean, take her and go."

"Sam, you can't—"

"Listen to me!" Sam hissed. "Something's coming; I can feel it. It's bigger than the typical demon, and there's no other reason for it to be here." He meaningfully cast his eyes in the direction of the woman standing behind Dean, her hair gleaming red-gold in the late morning rays shining through the stained-glass window.

Dean's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, you can feel it?"

Sam all but rolled his eyes. "I have the knife. I can do this. Get Anna out of here!"

The old Dean would have argued, would have insisted on taking his role as defender of the innocent and of Sam. But ever since his blunt confession in Concrete, the Dean who had been beside him in the Impala and the usual shabby hotel rooms was not the same man.

This Dean actually deferred to Sam, grabbing Anna by the arm and ushering her behind an old piano near the lone doorway. That left Sam to draw the demon-killing knife and crouch out of sight of the door.

The man who entered the room looked harmless enough: a distinguished-looking guy in a suit who looked carefully around, taking in the entire attic space. But to Sam, he felt…wrong.

More to the point, he made _Sam_ feel wrong, the same sensation of something crawling under his skin that he'd felt when Samhain was attacking him now swarming through his veins. It was almost a buzzing, like something was vibrating inside him.

Whatever it was, it enabled the demon's head to turn right towards him. "Sam Winchester," he said, starting forward. "It's nice to finally meet you. I've heard _so_ much about you."

He slowly stood up, the knife held behind his thigh, heart pounding. "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage."

The man's smile curled his lips in a way that made Sam think of something rotting. "So polite," he said in an oily tone. "So unlike your brother."

Sam took a step back, trying to draw the demon further in. "Yeah, Dean's not big on etiquette," he half-laughed.

The demon came closer, his back now to Dean and Anna where they crouched behind the piano. "Obviously not, or he would be introducing us."

Sam's blood ran cold. "He's not here," he said, standing straighter and tightening his grip on the knife.

"Of course he is," the man gently mocked in his aristocratic accent. "We were together for so long, it's almost like—" He broke off and tilted his head upwards. "Like I can scent him in the air."

"You're Alastair," Sam bit out, cold certainty rocketing through him.

"Ah, he _has_ told you about me? Excellent." Alastair rubbed his hands together and came forward. "He did _so_ enjoy his time with me."

"You son of a bitch," Sam growled. The buzzing under his skin was louder now, blending with the anger throbbing through him, making his vision dim around the edges as he came nearer.

Alastair lifted a hand, and Sam stopped as abruptly as if he'd run into a wall. Behind the demon, Anna was heading towards the exit, Dean's hand on her back pushing her along. Sam kept his eyes trained on the demon in front of him, flexing his fingers around the handle of the knife, searching for a break in the invisible barrier in front of him.

"How much did he tell you?" Alastair asked, taking another step towards Sam. "Dean's so modest, as I'm sure you know. Probably didn't give you too many details about how…proud he made me."

"Shut up," Sam snapped. He could feel his blood pumping, not just the beat of his heart but the actual throb of liquid through his veins, and it was just about the freakiest thing he'd ever felt.

"Your brother is really quite inventive," Alastair continued. "He did things with a knife that I've never seen before, and that takes some doing. I wonder how you'd perform in the same situation, given the…advantage that your blood gives you." He was only a few yards away, eyes gleaming malevolently as he went on, "Tell me, does that come from your father's side or your mother's?"

With a cry, Sam broke free, bringing up the knife as he lunged forward. He sank the blade into Alastair's shoulder and stepped back, watching Dean duck out the door as soon as the demon was vanquished.

Except that he wasn't vanquished.

Alastair was obviously in pain, but he was reaching for his shoulder and pulling out the knife, decidedly _not_ vanishing in a flicker of orange light. Sam's eyes went wide, and he looked frantically around for another way out of the room. Dean thought he had won and wouldn't be coming back, not that there was much he could do anyway. Sam had no other weapons, and there was no way this guy was going to let him go.

"You'll have to try harder than that, Sam," Alastair snarled, brandishing the bloody knife as he came forward. "Come on, I know you have it in you."

It took Sam only a fraction of a second to turn and race towards the window behind him. It took a fraction of a second more to crash through it, arms over his face as glass shattered around him, waiting to feel the knife sinking into his back or a jolt of demonic power stopping him in his tracks.

Instead, he fell to the ground two stories below, glass slicing through him in a hundred places, cutting almost as deeply as the demon's words. He hoped Dean had gotten out before hearing Alastair's taunts, or he'd be sinking down even further into the morass he was already in.

Even though it was nearly noon, the sun was chill on Sam's lacerated face as he hauled himself to his feet and stumbled away.


	14. Frayed at the Ends He Breaks

**14. Frayed at the Ends He Breaks** (prompt 10: full moon)

His stern features lit by the the moonlight shining overhead, Castiel said, "Dean, I know this is hard for you to understand right now—"

"You say one word about 'mysterious ways', and I swear to God, I will kick your ass," Dean growled, jabbing a finger into the angel's chest.

Castiel continued in a patient voice, "I am sure Anna explained to you that obedience is our purpose, our essence, the one thing we must do above all else. And she disobeyed."

"And you _killed_ her." Dean glared at the dark-haired man with all he had. "You took an innocent girl and blew her away right here in front of us!" He pointed at the barn, where Sam was standing watch over Anna's body, now vacant after Uriel's almost gleeful removal of her soul.

"I am sorry, Dean." Castiel's head tilted forward, his too-knowing eyes bright in the unearthly light of the full moon. "I know that you became quite close to her in the short time you knew each other."

Dean reached out and shoved Castiel hard with both hands. "You have no fucking idea," he snarled. "There has been _one_ good thing that's happened to me since I remembered the Pit, onething that made me feel like maybe it was okay to be alive and walking around. _Maybe_ it was okay to be me. And you just tore her to shreds. Oh, and that was after promising to kill my brother if I didn't play Judas for you. So don't you tell me that I don't understand, pal, because you're the one who needs a clubbing with a clue-by-four."

Castiel cocked his head to the side. "Dean, this is part of a larger plan, and while it may be difficult—"

"I'll tell you what's difficult." He stepped closer, nose to nose with the angel, cold anger burning within him. "What's difficult is being told bits and pieces but no real reasons for going along with this so-called plan of yours. What's difficult is having Sam's life threatened over and over again when he hasn't fucking done anything wrong."

"Your brother has the potential to be a very dangerous—"

"I don't care!" Dean roared, his voice shattering the quiet of the night. He heaved in a breath and spoke in a low, careful voice. "I don't care about your damn seals anymore, and I don't care about your demon war, and I don't care about what you _think_ Sam is going to turn into. Just leave us alone."

Castiel stared. "Dean, you were raised from Hell for a purpose, and that purpose has not yet been made manifest."

"Too bad." Dean straightened up. "We're going to go take care of our dead. When we're done, I except you to be gone."

He stalked past the angel and into the abandoned barn, feeling the cold wind blowing down his jacket collar. Fury was burning within him: fury at being so easily manipulated, at Uriel's casual knowledge of what it would take to break him—again—and at the knowledge that even if what he really wanted was to be the one to die, for all that he deserved it after everything he'd done for twenty-five unimaginable years, it wasn't one of the options he'd been given. No, it was Sam or Anna, the brother he'd still do anything for and the fallen angel who'd made him feel human for the first time in months.

And Dean would never forgive the angels for that.


	15. At the Still Point of the Turning World

**15. At the Still Point of the Turning World** (prompt 05: Solstice)

"Dean, we need to talk."

His brother lifted his head from the thin motel pillow and rubbed his bleary eyes. "This early in the morning?"

_It's the only time you're guaranteed to be sober_, Sam thought, but he bit back the words. Instead, he said, "It's after nine. I've already gotten coffee and breakfast and maybe found us a new hunt."

"Hurray for you," came the muttered response.

Letting out a sigh, Sam sat down on his brother's bed, the springs creaking under his added weight. Dean shifted away from him but didn't otherwise acknowledge his presence. "Look, I've been thinking," he started.

"About time," Dean said, eyes closed. "Since you sure as hell weren't thinking with that coin."

Pursing his lips, Sam reminded himself that yes, he really had fucked up, and no, yelling at Dean wasn't going to improve the situation. "So I know you told Castiel where to stick it, and for the record, I think you're right."

"Thanks for the Sam Winchester Seal of Approval."

Sam kept going. "But if we're really talking the Apocalypse here, we have to do _something_. I've been talking to Bobby, and he thinks he can identify some of the seals. Maybe we can go and stake them out, try and protect them."

Dean's reply came in the same worn-out tone. "Right, 'cause we have such a good track record with that."

Sam drew in a deep breath. "Or maybe we can go after the source."

That got a response: one eye cracked open and fixed him with a glare. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Lilith is the one breaking the seals, right? If we can stop her, then it all ends."

"That's funny, I seem to remember having this conversation before, and it ended with me saying 'no' and you saying 'okay.'" Dean raised himself on one elbow. "Has something changed since then?"

"Besides you going to Hell?" Sam snapped back before he could help it.

Dean's face instantly shuttered, and he turned away. "Oh right, I knew I'd forgotten something."

"Damn it, Dean!" Sam abruptly stood up and paced between the two beds. "Look, there was something strange when I was fighting Samhain, and the same thing with Alastair." He quickly explained about the strange feeling under his skin, and then added, "For a moment, Samhain looked like he was afraid of me. And even Alastair seemed to think I could fight him without any weapons. Ruby said so, too, the one time she came by. That means there's something _in me_, something I can use to fight demons. And if I can figure out how to do it, I can go after Lilith. _We_ can go after Lilith."

There was silence for a moment. Then Dean said, "There some reason you're bringing this up now?"

"Tomorrow's the winter solstice," Sam replied.

"Wow." Dean rubbed at his eyes. "Time flies when you're having fun."

"Most cultures around the world celebrate the return of daylight as the nights stop getting longer. It's the turning point when evil and darkness are defeated for another year." He shrugged and spread his hands apart. "I thought it couldn't hurt to start searching on the solstice."

Dean looked at him for a long moment, and the serious contemplation on his face showed more life than anything Sam had seen from him since that damn ghost sickness. Finally he said, "You know that Castiel told me I'm supposed to stop you from doing whatever it is you want to do here."

"You don't know that this is what he was talking about," Sam quickly replied.

"You're right, I don't." He looked at Sam a while longer, and finally gave a short, sharp nod. "You know what? Fuck 'em."

Sam's eyebrows shot up. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. Look, I don't like this idea of you trying to do…whatever…with something you got from the yellow-eyed bastard. I really don't. And not just because a guy in a trenchcoat warned me. But I trust you more than I trust them." Dean took in a deep breath. "I'm still gonna keep an eye on you, though."

"I wouldn't even consider this if I didn't think you had my back," Sam answered quietly.

"Even now?" Dean asked darkly.

Sam drew in a deep breath. They hadn't talked about Dean's sojourn in Hell since he'd first brought it up, and they hadn't talked about Anna since they burned her body next to the tree where her grace had fallen. Somehow he didn't think that now was the time, either, even if this was the first time Dean had acknowledged how screwed-up he'd become, how distant and withdrawn and barely reliable on a hunt.

Besides, all Sam really had to say in response was, "Yeah, Dean," knowing the sincerity of his tone was speaking volumes more.

Something like pain flashed across Dean's eyes, but only for a second. "Yeah, well, the second your head starts spinning around, I'm cutting you off."

He huffed out a half-laugh and dropped his head. "Duly noted."

There was a pause. Then Dean asked heavily, "You got any idea what you're doing, Sammy?"

"Nope," Sam replied cheerfully. "Bobby might, though."

"You been working something out with him?" Dean asked, eyebrows raised.

Sam shook his head. "Not until I talked to you."

Surprise lit up Dean's face, quickly replaced by the usual cynical look he wore these days. "You don't need my permission, you know."

"I know." Sam shrugged one shoulder. "I just—I wanted to talk to you first."

The dawning understanding and gratitude in Dean's eyes made Sam think that maybe the amount of daylight wasn't the only thing that was going to start getting brighter soon.


	16. In the Bleak MidWinter

**16. In the Bleak Mid-Winter** (prompt 16: winter)

Dean had thought it would help. Honestly, he had.

Sam had been fluttering around like a mother hen for weeks, driving him absolutely nuts without saying a word, his dewy-eyed looks of concern saying enough all by themselves. Dean knew there was nothing his little brother could do for him, nothing that could take away the pain and the horror and the regret for what he'd done in Hell. But he also knew Sam would be willing to try anything.

Still, when he suggested the crazy idea of harnessing his demon blood—how, Dean was pretty sure he had no frickin' clue—in order to turn himself into some kind of anti-demon weapon, Dean's first impulse was to shake some sense into him. Hard.

As soon as Dean brought up the angels as a counterargument, however, he was reminded that they weren't at all what they appeared to be. They'd manipulated him and Sam, put blind obedience above using their pea brains to the point of killing an innocent woman, and took the concept of "need to know" to a higher level than the CIA probably did.

When it came down to it, he trusted Sam a hell of a lot farther than he trusted them. Maybe there really _was_ a way to make something good out of what had happened to his baby brother, out of the fateful decision their mother had made all those years ago. The fact that Sam trusted his judgment enough to want his blessing before embarking on this course showed that he still cared what Dean thought.

And Dean had thought it would help.

Instead, they'd had a string of typically bad luck, first losing an innocent man to a crazy inbred human and then forcing a worn-out magician to kill his best friend. While both incidents had made Sam even more determined to figure out how to use what was inside of him, Dean had drifted even farther away, lost in self-recrimination not only for his time in Hell, but everything that had happened since. In response, Sam hewed closer to Bobby, talking on the phone late into the night while Dean pretended to sleep, half-afraid of what his little brother was trying to do but unable to take back his approval now that he'd given it.

Sometimes he felt like the January cold had seeped into his very bones

Like now, sitting in an abandoned warehouse in the middle of frickin' Worcester, Massachusetts, listening to the icy tinkle of sleet pounding the exterior of the building, waiting for the demon they'd caught the trail of three days ago to decide if he was good enough bait to swallow.

Dean snorted, huddling his shoulders against the chill of the empty building. He bitterly wondered if he'd even manage to be proper bait, since that was apparently all he was good for. Sam picked the hunts, Sam did the research, Sam figured out what it was and how to kill it. Dean still drove the car, but Sam was in the driver's seat in all other ways. He'd even gotten Dean to tone down his drinking, although he was pretty sure there wasn't anything that was going to get him to stop it entirely. Not when it was the only way he could fall asleep, even if it was to wake from nightmares a few hours later.

It was just as well he'd turned down Castiel. He couldn't even lead the way for his brother anymore, much less the frickin' heavenly host.

There was a scraping sound on the battered concrete floor, and Dean looked up. The shadow stretching out along the far wall wasn't tall enough to be Sam, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Step one of Sam's plan had apparently worked.

Careful to make enough noise to be tracked but not so much as to appear obvious, Dean wended his way deeper into the building, keeping track of the shadow out of the corner of his eye. When he got close enough to the devil's trap, he waited until the demon was almost upon him and then darted out of the way.

It howled when it realized it was trapped, the face of the middle-aged man it wore snarling and spitting at him. But Dean merely melted back into the shadows and watched as Sam came forward, calm confidence marking his face, and raised a hand, palm out, towards the demon.

It took a few tries, but the demon's initial chortle turned into a gasp and then a choking sound as black smoke lurched out of its throat. Dean watched in astonishment, amazed that the tentative ideas Bobby and Sam had been throwing around had actually been shaped into something workable, amazed that _Sam was exorcising a demon with his mind_.

The triumph on Sam's face as the last of the dark cloud sank through the floor with a yellow-orange sizzle was a sight to behold.

It made Dean's heart sink.

Now Sam could take on demons all by himself.

Now there was nothing he needed his big brother for.


	17. At the Violet Hour

**17. At the Violet Hour** (prompt 06: dusk)

Sam was surprised that Bedford, Iowa, had a full-fledged coffee shop, let alone one with lattes this good. Taking another sip from his cup, he watched Nick approach with his own drink in hand. "Nice place," the FBI agent said, sliding into the booth across from Sam.

"Yeah," Sam agreed. He looked out the plate-glass window at bucolic Main Street. The streetlights were beginning to come on as the day drew to a close, the western sky shading upwards from liquid gold at the horizon to a deep, dark violet-blue overhead.

He idly wondered if any of the passers-by were planning on heading for the strip club tonight. Three days in town, and he wasn't any closer to catching the siren. Dean had perked up briefly at the prospect of a case involving actual strippers, but it hadn't lasted long, leaving Sam on his own except for Nick.

Dean had gone even more distant since Sam's first successful no-hands exorcism, and Sam had finally accepted that when Dean said he was okay with it, he'd been lying through his teeth. Not knowing what else to do, Sam kept trying to find them cases that didn't have demonic overtones to keep the subject from coming up. But he needed the practice if he was going to go up against Lilith, and he was beginning to wonder if he was going to have to drop Dean off at Bobby's and get onto business himself.

"So you think it's really just one woman, making herself look like all of these different people?" Nick asked, taking a swig of his coffee.

"It makes sense," Sam said with a shrug. _In my crazy, fucked-up world, that is._ "I'm thinking we should stake out the club tonight and see if anyone leaving fits the victims' profile."

"Wait outside a strip club for a woman to go home with a guy?" Nick shook his head. "It'll take more than two people to track them all. What about your brother?"

"He's not feeling well," Sam said with a look that said, _Subject closed_.

"That's too bad," Nick replied. "We could use the extra set of eyes."

"Yeah, well, it's not going to happen." Sam pushed his cup aside and slid out of the booth. "I'll be right back."

He ducked into the restroom and tried not to think of how much he wished it was Dean here with him, even if he'd have been giving him crap about the whipped cream and the flavoring in his drink. Sam had the feeling he could walk around the motel room in a dress and high heels and Dean wouldn't say a word. He'd started to wonder if it was even possible to pull Dean out of the depression he'd sunk into.

Back in the main room, Sam took his seat across from Nick. "Good coffee?" he asked.

"Yeah, it's great." Nick watched him take a sip of what was now a lukewarm toffee nut latte. "So, let's say she _is_ drugging her vics. How's she pulling that off?"

"She could be injecting them," Sam replied, laying out the scenarios he'd already considered but hadn't been able to share with anyone. "Or passing the toxin through physical contact."

Nick nodded, his eyes on the cup Sam had set on the formica table. "Or, it could be in her saliva."

Sam pondered that for a moment. Sure, a stripper could easily have gotten the victims a drink and put something in it while they weren't looking—

_Oh._ A flutter of fear shimmered across his gut, and he stared at his coffee cup. _Oh, shit_.

"You really shouldn't have left your drink alone, Sam."

He looked up sharply, and something cold slid down his spine. Nick was regarding him coolly from across the table. The knowing look in his eyes told Sam just how screwed he was. Whatever the siren had done to its victims had just been done to him, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Panic started to build within him, and he wondered if he had time to call Dean to warn him.

"I should be your big brother, Sam," Nick said gently.

Sam stared at him. He already had a big brother…sort of. Did he really? Dean had almost looked afraid when Sam had exorcised that demon, and the way he kept deferring to Sam was driving him up the wall. Not that he liked being told what to do, but Dean being the one in charge had been the bedrock of Sam's life for as long back as he could remember. Having to carry the weight for both of them over the past few months was slowly but surely crushing Sam's soul.

"Dean, he…" Nick shook his head. "You can't count on him. Not like you can count on me."

That was for damn sure. Nick had been with him this whole case, had listened to his suggestions and treated him as an equal. Not like Dean, who'd been holed up in the motel room with his new best friend José Cuervo.

"In fact," Nick said more firmly, "I really feel like you should get him out of the way. So that we can be brothers. Forever."

He looked up at Nick, and the sincerity and hopefulness in the other man's eyes matched the tone of his voice. It made sense, Sam thought, nodding slowly. What Nick was saying made sense.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Yeah, you're right." He hadn't thought of it that way before, but now he knew what he had to do.

He looked out the window. Dusk had fallen, the last glimmer of gold about to fade from the horizon. Dean would probably have already passed out, worthless piece of crap that he was. It wouldn't take any effort at all. Maybe Sam could even do it hands-free.

And then he'd have a real big brother. Forever.


	18. The Hollow Men

**18. The Hollow Men** (prompt 29: weeks)

When Dean woke up, he thought for one heart-stopping moment that he was back in Hell. He was flat on his back, unable to move, and the _thing_ looming over him with a knife was wearing his brother's face, twisted in a hateful sneer.

Then the third person in the room registered: Nick, the FBI agent Sam had been palling around with almost since arriving in this podunk town. Dean's foggy brain started putting two and two together, and he didn't like at all what he was coming up with.

"Sam," he said urgently, willing his eyes to focus in the dim light of the room, lit only by the lamp near the door. "Sam, come on, you're stronger than this."

In response, Sam leaned closer, one knee on the bed and one hand splayed out over Dean's chest, pinning him down. His other hand held the knife he usually carried at his waist, held up so that the lamplight glinted off of it. Dean couldn't hold back a shudder, and Sam's mouth widened in a dark smile. For a moment, his eyes looked so black that Dean thought he was possessed, but then he turned his head slightly and Dean realized it was just a trick of the light.

Not that that made the current situation much better.

Starting to struggle, Dean realized with horror that he actually couldn't move. He was bound in place as securely as if with ropes, but there was nothing around his wrists or ankles. _What the hell?_ "Sam, come on," he pleaded.

His brother leaned closer, still not saying a word, fever-bright eyes boring into Dean's. Then he deliberately lowered the knife until Dean could feel its sharp edge kissing his throat, right over his pulse point.

Dean held his breath and looked up. Seeing the familiar, beloved features of his little brother leering at him so tauntingly was more terrifying than feeling the razor-sharp blade at his throat. "Sam," he tried once more, this time a whisper. "Come on, man, fight it."

"There's nothing to fight," Nick spoke up, moving into Dean's field of vision. He laid a careful hand on Sam's shoulder, and the look the younger man gave him in reply made Dean's eyes widen. It was the same need for approval he'd seen on Sam's face a hundred times before, but always aimed at him or Dad. Never at a stranger.

He glared at Nick. "Guess you figured there wasn't much point trying to seduce Sammy in your usual mode, huh?"

"Sam needs a big brother," Nick replied with a casual shrug.

Dean's gut churned. He was about to become another one of the siren's victims, and the only thing keeping him from closing his eyes and just giving in was the thought of what it would do to Sam once he found out what he'd done.

Nick leaned closer, one hand reaching out to gently tug on Sam's wrist. "Give it to me, Sam," he said, and Sam instantly obeyed, sitting back on his heels on the side of the bed and letting go of the knife.

Before Dean could take advantage, Nick's other hand closed over his jaw and forced his mouth open. "Sam's here to kill you, you know. But I thought I should at least make it a fair fight."

With that, he opened his mouth. Dean had just enough time to see what looked like a snake's fangs before a jet of liquid shot out of Nick's mouth and over his own lips. He tried to pull away, but a trickle of the liquid slid into his mouth, and revulsion and dread curled together in his gut.

After a long moment, Dean realized he could move again, and he slowly sat up as Nick backed away. "Go to it," the other man said. "For me."

He looked at Sam, who was calmly staring back at him from a few feet away. "You freak," Dean spat out. "You were holding me down, weren't you?"

"You didn't even know I could! You've had your head buried so far in a bottle these past few weeks, I could be doing fucking _anything_ with these powers, and you wouldn't even know."

"Should have known you'd go dark side," Dean retorted, rising onto his knees, feeling fury thunder through his veins. "Should have known you couldn't handle it." For weeks, he'd ignored Sam practicing something he didn't really want to know about or face, and now it looked like he should have been keeping an eye on the little bitch all along.

"Oh, I can handle it, all right." Sam's lip curled. "Wanna see?"

Dean was already diving for his pillow and the gun underneath it, but before his hands could close around the weapon, he was flying backwards, landing with a thump against the wall.

It was an all-too-familiar position, feet dangling as he hung spread-eagled, but it wasn't a demon restraining him this time. It was his little brother.

Dean glared as Sam approached, twirling the knife between his fingers and smirking. "So much for a fair fight," Sam taunted. "You're hopeless, Dean. Completely worthless."

"At least I don't have demon blood in me," Dean spat back.

"No, and it's too bad for you." Sam raised the knife. "'Cause it's the only thing that could save you."

"Not exactly."

The voice registered as out of place, but it wasn't until Sam let out a sharp cry and clapped a hand to his suddenly-bloody shoulder that Dean registered it as Bobby. The older man was turning towards Nick, raising the bronze dagger dripping with Sam's blood, and Dean managed a "No!" just as Bobby threw the blade.

Moments later, Dean crashed to the ground, Sam slumping down along with him. They stared at each other, dazed.

_How are we going to fix this?_ Dean thought, and from the bleak expression on Sam's face, he was thinking the same thing.

_I've got nothing._


	19. Each Slow Dusk

I'll be going on a short holiday hiatus after this chapter...there'll be more to come in the new year!

**19. Each Slow Dusk** (prompt 28: twilight)

The hardscrabble town in western Nebraska where they ended up that night was one of the bleaker places Sam could remember staying in. The lifeless surroundings were more than appropriate, given that he'd tried to kill his brother less than twenty-four hours ago.

After Bobby left them that afternoon, Dean had driven for six hours without a word or a note of music to break the silence. Then he'd disappeared into the shower while Sam headed back out, going for food on auto-pilot, even though anything he ate was going to taste like ashes.

He'd gone so far over the line, siren's poison or not, that it was a wonder Dean hadn't left him by the side of the road. All Sam could see was himself throwing Dean across the room, or holding a knife to his brother's throat and _liking it_. Liking the power he held, liking that Dean's life was completely in his hands and that the older man knew it.

Sam had tried _so hard_ to pay attention to the power growing within him and watch for signs that it was changing him. But obviously, he'd blown it.

So at some point during the day, Sam had made his peace with what he had to do. More to the point, with what Dean had to do. He didn't trust himself not to chicken out at the last minute. But after what he'd almost done to Dean, surely Sam could count on him for this one last thing.

The sun was almost down when Sam walked back into the motel parking lot, purple shadows stretching across the gravel and the lone car in the lot. Sam reached out and caressed the Impala's hood as he passed. _Take care of him_, he thought, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat.

When he entered, Dean was sitting at the rickety table, Sam's laptop open in front of him. Sam hesitated, the greasy fast-food bag in his hand swinging back and forth as he stood indecisively. Maybe it would be better if Dean had dinner first—but no, Sam couldn't sit here and wait when he knew what was coming.

So he set the paper bag on the table and then slowly, keeping his movements visible, pulled the gun out of the back of his waistband and carefully laid it next to the food. Then he drew in a deep breath. "Here you go."

Dean looked at him quizzically. "You can clean your own gun, Sam."

"You made me a promise." Sam spoke deliberately, willing his brother to understand. "It's time for you to keep it."

The dawning light in Dean's eyes told him that he understood, but he looked back at the laptop and said, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Damn it, Dean!" Sam exploded. "I think using my powers to try and kill you qualifies as going dark side!"

"It wasn't you, Sammy," came the calm reply, so calm that Sam wanted to punch his brother. "It was the siren."

Exasperated, Sam leaned forward, dropping his hands onto the table, which swayed precariously underneath his weight. "It wasn't the siren who held you down with his mind. It wasn't the siren who pinned you to the wall like a demon. It was _me_. It was me and my freaky powers."

"They're just a tool." Dean looked up as he reached out and tapped the Taurus with a finger. "Just like this. Just like Ruby's knife. It's not the powers, it's how you use them. And they weren't under your control."

Sam stared at him. "So demonic powers don't kill people, people kill people?"

"Something like that," Dean agreed.

Sam finally shook his head and stood up, reaching for the gun. "If you won't do it, then—"

Dean moved lightning-fast, his hand closing over Sam's in a tight grip that pinched his fingers against the metal of the gun. "Like hell you will, Sam." His voice was cold and sharp.

They stared at each other. Finally, Sam relaxed his hold on the gun and let Dean pull his hand away. "Good," Dean muttered, reaching out with his other hand to grab the Taurus and tuck it away. "You can have it back in the morning."

"Are you kidding me?" Sam stared at him.

"Nick was right about one thing. I haven't been your big brother lately. Now, the way you're beating yourself up, you obviously haven't gone Darth Winchester, but it doesn't mean you don't need me watching your back."

"Yeah," Sam said softly, feeling a faint spark of hope for the first time in ages.

"The thing is, Sam…I looked at you in that motel room, and I wanted to hurt you. I wanted to—" Dean broke off and swallowed hard. "I don't _ever_ want to feel like that again. I don't ever want to feel like I wouldn't give my life for yours.

"Me either," Sam replied, his voice shaking.

"I don't know how to do this," Dean went on. "I don't know if we can, but…" He gave a helpless little shrug. "One day at a time, right?"

"Yeah," Sam agreed. He paused before grabbing the grease-stained paper bag and lobbing it into the trash can. "There's, uh, a diner down the street," he said hesitantly. "The sign in the window says their cherry pie won a ribbon at the county fair."

"Now that's what I'm talking about," Dean said, and if his smile was a faint shadow of its usual self, it was still so much more than Sam had seen in months that it made him want to fall to his knees in thanksgiving.

Instead, he let Dean order bacon cheeseburgers for both of them and steal as many fries as he wanted to off of his plate.

When Sam got up early to watch the sun rise the next morning, he saw it as nothing so much as a gift from his big brother.


	20. Darkest Before Dawn

**20. Darkest Before Dawn** (prompt 15: midnight)

"I told you four months ago where to stick it, and I'd be more than happy to repeat myself."

Dean didn't flinch as the dark-skinned angel suddenly appeared inches away from him. "This isn't a choice," Uriel rumbled. "You're going to use those special _skills_ of yours and find out from Alastair who is killing our brethren."

"No." Dean lifted his chin, drawing on Sam's solid, supporting presence at his side as he faced down the two angels who'd appeared in their motel room in the middle of the night. "I'm not."

"Dean, we wouldn't ask if this wasn't serious." Castiel looked surprisingly apologetic. "We believe that you know certain…techniques that will get the information we need out of Alastair."

"You can't ask him to do that," Sam burst out. "You have no idea what it's done to him just to _remember_ that, much less—"

"Sam, shut up." Dean wasn't too keen on his sob story being spilled to the angels. He was finally getting back on his feet, and he didn't want the reminder of how fucked up he'd been all winter.

Uriel was shaking his head. "You _owe_ us. You owe the world."

Castiel's voice was sharp. "Uriel, do not—"

But the other angel was going on, "Do you know how the first seal broke?"

Dean looked at him warily. Based on what Bobby had said about the Rising of the Witnesses, it must have happened while he was down under. "I wasn't exactly around at the time."

Uriel gave a low chuckle. "Oh, yes you were," he said. His dark eyes locked on Dean's, he intoned, "_And it is written that the first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in Hell. As he breaks, so shall it break._"

The words sank in, but they didn't compute. It wasn't until he heard Sam's gasp next to him that they started to make sense. And then it took every bit of Dean's iron will to keep from hurling all over the avocado-green carpet.

"You're lying," Sam hissed, lunging forward.

The angel flicked a hand in his direction, and Sam froze in mid-reach. "Angels do not lie," he growled. "Your brother broke the first seal."

"That's not possible," Sam snapped back, eyes flashing.

"They don't lie, Sam." Dean could hear the defeat in his own voice, but he tried to straighten his shoulders against the weight of this new burden. "They might be dicks, but they're not demons."

Across the room, Castiel's blue eyes were looking back at him sorrowfully, softer than Dean had ever seen them, and he knew that what Uriel said had been right.

Dean closed his eyes, feeling despair wash over him like a physical force. If Sam hadn't made that fucking wish, if he himself hadn't been so goddamn weak, if he'd known it was forty years and not four and a half months, or if he'd not known at all…

Not that any of that mattered. All Dean could do now was respond to the angels' request, to their insistence that he owed them. But if he went along with what they wanted, the blackness he could feel hammering away at the edges of his mind would have a clear path in, and he couldn't bear the thought of what that would do to him.

"I won't do it," Dean finally said. "You can try all the emotional blackmail you want, but I'm not going to become up here what I was down there."

Uriel looked back at him steadily. Finally, a cruel smile turned up one corner of his mouth. "I keep telling you. You don't have a choice."

Faster than Dean's eye could follow, Uriel reached out and touched Sam's forehead. A second later, the two of them vanished, Sam's surprised yelp echoing in the air.

Dean blinked. "What the hell?" he shouted.

Before Castiel could reply, Uriel appeared again, ostentatiously dusting his hands together. "Changed your mind yet?"

"Where's my brother?" Dean demanded, his stomach sinking.

"If you want to see him again, you'll do as we ask." Uriel loomed over him, and Dean could almost see the shadow of wings against the wood-paneled walls. "If you refuse me one more time, I can guarantee that you will never see Sam again for the rest of your pathetic life."

Dean was shaking with fury. If he had an angel-killing knife in his hand, there was no question that he'd be plunging it into Uriel's gut right about now. "You son of a bitch," he said slowly.

"Dean, there isn't much time." Castiel came up and put a hand on his shoulder, and Dean jerked away so violently that the angel had to take a quick step forward to retain his balance. "I am sorry that we are asking this of you, but we must save this seal and our brethren."

He turned to Castiel, letting the betrayal and fury he was feeling wash over his face and seep into his words. "If they're all like you, I think I'd rather they were dead.

Castiel actually flinched. "Please, Dean. Sam will not be harmed, but you _must_ get the information from Alastair."

Dean already knew he was going to give in, knew that "yes" was going to fall from his lips the same way it had in the Pit. He let his anger simmer into a slow boil, let it fuel the small, dark internal remnants of his time in Hell into a black flame that burned from inside. He took the rage he was feeling towards the beings in front of him and used it to wall off a corner of his mind as he opened up everything else to the memories he'd tried so hard to repress over the past six months.

And then he looked Uriel in the eye and said in a growl, "Bring it on."


	21. We Break the Dawn

**21. We Break the Dawn **(prompt 01: dawn)

Sam ran a hand through his hair, grimacing. Uriel had dumped him in this imitation nineteenth-century drawing room—minus the doors and windows—and disappeared. Dean had to be going nuts.

They'd been getting closer again, the horror of what Sam had nearly done to Dean and himself serving as a sorely-needed wake-up call. It was still awkward at times, but they'd done a fine job of saving the reaper Tessa, with the help of Bobby's friend Pamela. Sam shivered, remembering how he'd come to after the spirit-walking to find her fending off a demon. He'd acted instantly, pulling out the demon before remembering his audience. The psychic had freaked out, warning him that no good could come of what he was doing. Considering he'd saved her life, he wasn't inclined to listen.

A voice broke his reverie. "Sam, come with me. _Now_."

He whirled around to see Castiel, exuding his usual odd mixture of powerful and rumpled. "Where's Dean?"

"He needs your help," Castiel replied. "We have to go."

Sam glared. "Then why am I here in the first place?"

"It wasn't my—" For the first time, Castiel looked flustered. Then he straightened his shoulders. "There's no time to explain."

Two fingers reached up, and before Sam could swat them away, he again felt a jerk like his brain was being pulled through the top of his skull. Before he could gasp, he was standing in a dark, dingy building in front of a steel door with a small window.

Castiel's hand was on his arm before he could look. "Alastair got free and is attacking your brother. You get to Dean; I will stop Alastair. Understood?"

The angel's eyes were blazing, and Sam knew that as much as he wanted to demand answers, now was not the time. "Yeah," he said, reaching for the door.

They burst into the room and saw Dean spread-eagled against the far wall, blood streaking the side of his face, lips curled in a snarl. Thankfully, he obviously had a lot of fight left in him from the way he was struggling against the demon's grip.

"Alastair!" Castiel's voice boomed through the high-ceilinged room. "Release him!"

"But I'm not finished yet," the demon sneered, and Sam watched in horror as he raised a slender knife and laid the edge of the blade along the apple of Dean's cheek.

Dean suddenly went perfectly still. Even from this distance, Sam could see fear darkening his eyes, both fresh and remembered, and something inside of him snapped. "Let him go," Sam demanded coldly.

In reply, Alastair drew down the knife in a quick stroke, bright red welling along Dean's cheek as the hunter let out a startled cry.

Sam didn't even have to think. He reached out and _pulled_, wishing that he could do more to Alastair than exorcize him. He wished that he could tear the demon to shreds and stomp on the remains, set him on fire and let him burn for all that he had done to Dean in Hell and God only knew what had happened here.

Instead, he pressed his hand downward, palm towards the rough concrete, and watched as black smoke burned into the ground.

When everything was silent, Alastair's possessed human sprawled in a crumpled heap. Sam stooped to check his pulse and then shook his head at Dean, who was watching warily, wiping the blood off his cheek with the back of his hand.

"What?" Sam asked, slightly exasperated. They'd had a long talk after the siren, and Dean had shared that while he wasn't completely comfortable with what Sam could do, it was more good than bad, and he wasn't going to give Sam any crap about it.

"We warned you," came Castiel's voice, deeper than normal, and Sam realized where Dean's wariness had come from.

He turned to face the angel a few feet away, bright blue eyes boring into Sam and shoulders rolling back as if he was flexing his wings. "This is exactly what you were told _not_ to do," Castiel warned.

"It's not a demon," Dean interrupted, his voice raspier than usual. When Castiel shot him a look, he gestured at the chains hanging from a star-shaped metal rack, stained with blood. "He said only an angel can kill another angel."

"Are you sure?" Castiel asked, brows lowered.

Dean's voice was laced with a dark certainty that made Sam's stomach drop. "Yeah. I am." Then he shook himself. "Besides, you've got some explaining to do."

Sam's gaze skipped past the battered table with…implements…scattered over it, focusing on the extremely-complicated devil's trap chalked onto the floor. Instantly, he saw the gap—a smudged line in the chalk with a dripping pipe above it. "Did you draw that?" he demanded, whirling on Castiel.

Castiel looked startled. "No, it was—" Then his face paled and his gaze fell. "I must go," he said, jerkily. Then he vanished.

Silence fell, heavy and thick. Sam took a hesitant step forward. "You okay, man?"

"Peachy," Dean quickly replied, not meeting his eyes. "You got any idea where the hell we are?"

Sam shook his head. "I haven't even seen what's outside."

"Me neither." Dean's shoulders jerked in a shudder, and then he was brushing past Sam, moving for the exit.

It was an old meatpacking plant, according to the faded sign on the side of the building. The faint tinge of dawn pointed them east, and the dry, dusty landscape suggested they might still be in Wyoming. Sam turned to look at his brother and saw that he was barely holding it together, eyes roaming around like he was expecting Alastair to show up right in front of him. "Let's find our way out of here, okay?" Sam said gently.

"Yeah," Dean roughly agreed. He started walking towards the dirt road leading away from the building. Sam followed, the ever-brighter light of morning guiding their steps and throwing each pebble on the stony ground into sharp relief.


	22. Yesterday Came Suddenly

**22. Yesterday Came Suddenly** (prompt 17: yesterday)

It was twelve hours after they'd walked away from the meatpacking plant. Twelve hours after Alastair left the building in a flash of dark smoke and Castiel left them to clean up the mess.

One day after the threat to Sam's life forced Dean to dredge up a part of himself that he would've rather cut out with one of those razor-sharp knives that had fit so easily in his hand.

Fortunately, a trucker passing by the tiny burg of Josslyn, Nebraska, had seen them trudging along and offered them a lift. Sam stayed silent throughout the ride, slumped against the door. His uneven breaths meant he was feigning sleep, but since there wasn't anything Dean could say to him anyway, he let it pass.

Instead, he listened to Bob the trucker telling him about all the best cathouses in the West. Dean didn't need the info, but it beat listening to the seething darkness in his head. So he nodded and made appropriate noises, and before he knew it, they were pulling up to the Cowboy Motel outside Cheyenne.

The dark gleam of the Impala, patiently waiting outside their room, almost made his heart lift.

"I'll pay for another night," he said. "You take the first shower."

"No, let me," Sam said. When Dean started to protest, Sam grabbed his wrist and held it up.

There were dark red stains around the edges of all of his fingernails.

Dean jerked his hand away. They'd found a rusty pump outside an old farmhouse and coaxed a trickle from it to get the worst of the blood off. Now, standing in the dusty parking lot, he could suddenly smell the bright coppery stench, and it turned his stomach. "Fine," he growled.

Inside, he turned the shower on hot and scrubbed off quickly. It was almost six, definitely time to find some entertainment for the evening. He needed something to distract him after—

Dean abruptly wrenched off the hot water faucet, willing the icy cold to shock him from his dark thoughts. Unsuccessful, he hastily toweled off before opening the bathroom door. "All yours," he muttered.

Sam was perched on the edge of his bed, fidgeting with the remote. He waited a moment and then asked hesitantly, "Hey, you okay?"

He stared hard at the floor. "No, but I'll be better once we stop talking about it."

"Look, I don't know what went on in there—"

"And you're not gonna," Dean warned.

"—and I don't need to," Sam finished with a pointed look. "But…Dean, you can't go back."

The words sent a shiver down his spine. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Sam made a helpless little gesture. "The headspace you were in all winter. You can't go back there. There's still seals to save, and now _angels_ are dying, and I—I want to help you."

"Just make sure I get back in one piece from the bar tonight," Dean retorted.

"That won't help anything," Sam said warningly.

"Oh yeah? What do you know about it? What the _fuck_ do you know about trying to forget being a torturer?" Dean crossed the room in two swift strides, looming over his seated brother. "It all came back to me like that, Sam." He snapped his fingers and met Sam's gaze head-on. The kid had to know what kind of monster he was dealing with. "It felt familiar," he went on in a low voice. "It felt comfortable. It felt _good_."

Sam stared back unflinchingly. "Because it was Alistair?" he asked, matching Dean's tone. "Or because you were in control?"

"Don't start that psychology bullshit with me," Dean growled.

"It's a common tactic used on POWs," Sam went on calmly. "Coercing them into torturing their comrades."

Dean snapped back, "It was _my choice_ to do it. My decision to get off that rack and pick up the knife." God, how stupid was his brother if he couldn't get this?

"Did everyone get that choice?" Sam asked, eyes bright like he was on the scent of something.

"What? I don't…" Dean pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, briefly delving into the fetid pit of his memories. "No, I don't think so."

"Why do you think they framed it as a choice for _you_?" Sam was leaning forward now, looking at him so intently it felt like he was trying to beam thoughts right into Dean's head. "Why do you think you got that offer? Because having to make that choice and having made it were all _part of the torture_. And as long as you let it ride you like this, _it's still going on_."

Dean shook his head slowly, refusing to accept the out he was being given. "You can't understand, Sam. You just can't."

For answer, Sam held out his forearm, displaying the veins in his wrist. "There is _demon blood_ in me, Dean," he said deliberately. "I can't change that. But I have a choice about what to do with it. You can't change what happened to you, either. But you _can_ choose how to deal. Don't let it define you. Please." His voice broke a little on the last word, but his gaze held steady.

Before Dean could answer, there was a knock at the door. Grumbling, he tucked the towel tighter around his waist and snatched his Colt from the dresser, holding it behind his back as he opened the door.

When Dean saw the figure in the rumpled trenchcoat, he started to swing it shut again.

"Wait!" he heard, and an outflung arm kept the door open.

"Castiel, what the fuck do you want?" Dean asked tiredly.

"I'm not Castiel." The voice was much higher-pitched than usual, and Dean stared at him, fingers tightening around the gun. "My name is Jimmy," the man went on, his blue eyes shifting between Dean and Sam. "Castiel's gone. And we're all in big trouble."


	23. A Light Exists in Spring

**23. A Light Exists in Spring** (20: equinox)

The lightest of breezes carried the faint green scent of spring through the car window. Sam usually saw the seasons change multiple times every year in their travels, but here in Pontiac, Illinois, on the first day of spring, the first timely buds were shimmering on the trees and cheery purple crocuses were poking above the cold ground.

As the driver's door opened, Sam turned away from the tranquil neighborhood scene. "How're they doing?" he asked, nodding at Amelia Novak's house.

Dean turned the key in the ignition. "As well as anyone ever does when they find out this shit is real."

"And Claire?" Sam asked.

"God only knows." Dean paused. "Huh. That might not just be a saying." He shrugged and went on, "Jimmy said it was like being chained to a comet, right?"

Sam shuddered at the thought of a little girl being subjected to that kind of power, if only briefly. Castiel had had to use his vessel's daughter to break free from the angels who were threatening them all, and it was only the timely arrival of the demons crashing the party that had enabled the humans to escape unscathed.

So far, at least—Sam had no illusions that what he'd done to help was going to be forgotten by either side.

A few miles down the road, there was a brief flutter of wings before the back seat was suddenly occupied. Sam was reaching out with his power before he recognized Castiel, back in his familiar form. He pulled back but kept ready, every sense alert.

"Dude, you need to wear a bell," Dean grumbled, straightening the Impala out from its sudden swerve.

"The bell would not arrive in advance of me," Castiel replied. "I fail to see how that would help."

"Never mind," Sam muttered, teeth clenched and nerves tingling.

"I need to speak with you both," Castiel said. "Please pull over."

Sam looked at Dean, who already had a wary question on his face. _Do we have any choice?_ Sam replied with raised eyebrows and a tiny grimace. Dean rolled his eyes, but the worry was clear in his thinned lips and tight jaw.

A few minutes later, the Impala was parked at the side of a dirt lane, Dean and Sam standing shoulder to shoulder in front of her. Even though Sam knew there wasn't anything Dean could do if Castiel decided to smite his ass, the protective stance Dean was taking sent a fierce wave of love over him that gave him the courage to face the angel head-on.

"I wanted to thank you," Castiel said, standing next to the hood of the car. "Especially you, Sam."

Sam blinked in confusion. "Really?"

"The first time I confronted Uriel about killing our brethren, I was fortunate to escape and send Jimmy to you for aid. But last night, if you had not used your powers to remove Uriel from his vessel and send him back to Heaven, I would have perished at his hand."

"We all would have," Dean pointed out. "Either his hand or the demons'."

Castiel inclined his head. "Yes, but considering how I have…acted towards you, you did not have to save me." His eyes focused on Sam, more bright and clear than the sky above. "I am grateful."

"You're welcome," Sam said slowly, half-expecting the "Twilight Zone" theme to start playing.

"Obedience is at the core of our being," the angel went on. "We are not to question orders, no matter if they seem strange or confusing. But this—what Uriel has done, what the others in the garrison have done—it cannot be right. To not tell the truth, to deliberately mislead me into thinking it was demons, and to coerce you into—" He looked at Dean and shook his head. "It is not right."

Sam stayed silent. Next to him, Dean refrained from his usual wisecracks, apparently also sensing that this was a monumental admission for Castiel.

"Because of Uriel, I feel…betrayed." Castiel paused. "I do not like it."

Dean let out a snort. "I don't think anyone ever does, Cas."

"The two of you," Castiel continued, scrutinizing them both at once. "You do not do as you are told. You do the _opposite_ of what you are told. You tell a dozen half-truths every day as easily as breathing. You hold back truth from me and at times from each other. And yet, you would never deliberately betray your family."

"Of course not," Dean snapped, fire in his voice.

Castiel straightened his shoulders. "So I would rather stand with you. Against whatever is coming, against the breaking of the seals."

Sam stared at him. "What?"

"I am…more confident in your loyalty than that of my own brothers, and so I would offer my assistance. However, I realize that I might be more of a danger to you than a help, and so I leave the choice up to you."

Sam looked at Dean, seeing the same mixture of confusion and amazement that must be on his own face. _What do you think?_ he asked with uplifted eyebrows and shoulders.

Dean's eyes slid to the side, his head tilting with it. _I don't know_, the gesture said. _Could be a bad idea_.

_An angel, Dean_, Sam thought, making his eyes wide. _Some answers. Divine assistance._ Okay, so Dean would have to be an actual mind-reader to get that last bit, but Sam was sure his enthusiasm was clear

_You're sure?_ Dean's pointed look said.

Sam nodded.

Dean turned towards Castiel and held up one finger. "No backseat driving. In fact, no driving at all." A second finger went up. "No giving Sam crap about his powers."

Castiel's gaze shifted to Sam and then back. "Agreed," he said solemnly.

"All right," Dean said, and held out his hand. Sam did the same, and the ritual gesture felt like something much bigger than a handshake as Castiel's hand closed around his.


	24. Can Spring Be Far Behind?

**24. Can Spring Be Far Behind?** (21: spring)

"Sam, where are you?" Dean barked into the phone.

"Fourteenth floor. Hurry up, I think he's—" There was a clatter as if the phone had been dropped, then the swishing sound of a ghost being temporarily dispatched with salt or iron. Before Dean could ask what the hell was going on, Sam had picked up the phone again. "I think he's getting pissed."

"Okay, we'll be right there." Dean raised his hand and snapped his fingers to get Castiel's attention. The angel looked over from where he was examining the lobby display of the history of Sandover Bridge and Iron. It had to be as dull as dirt, but Castiel seemed to find it interesting.

"Wait!" Sam called, his voice faint as Dean started to lower the phone.

Dean brought the phone back up. "What?"

"Don't take the elevator," Sam warned.

"Dude, fourteen floors?" Dean whined.

"Just…don't."

"All right," Dean sighed and flipped the phone shut. "Hey, Cas, can you beam us up to fourteen?"

Castiel cocked his head to the side. "Beam you up?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "We need to be on the fourteenth floor, like _now_."

Seconds later, they were, just in time to see Sam swinging a heavy wrench through the air at a ghostly old fart who vanished with a scowl. "The gloves," Sam said, nodding towards a small display case holding two ancient leather gloves.

There was blood spattered all over Sam's yellow polo shirt, and Dean started towards him, eyes widening in alarm. Sam held up his hands and impatiently shook his head. "It's not mine," he said. "Just burn 'em."

Dean darted over to the case, pulling out his lighter. A second later, he felt cold air on the nape of his neck and instinctively ducked, both to avoid the ghost and the swing of Sam's wrench. When he popped back up, he snatched the gloves and held them over the lighter. "Bye-bye, P.T.," he said as he flicked it to life.

Or at least tried to. "Come _on_," he muttered, his thumb spinning the little metal wheel around and around to no avail.

A yelp from Sam caught his attention, and he looked up to see the tall figure of his brother sprawled out on the ground, weapon lying a few feet away, reaching desperately for the salt canister as P.T. Sandover loomed over him, malevolence in his dead eyes and blue lightning flickering from his fingertips.

"Damn it!" Dean cried, trying the lighter again.

"Let me." Castiel plucked the gloves from his hand and held them in front of him, staring at them intently. Dean didn't see any laser beams shoot from his eyes or anything like that, but a second later, bright flames were flaring over the cracked leather, and the figure threatening Sam was evaporating in a shower of sparks.

Castiel dropped the flaming gloves when his skin started to blister from the heat, although Dean noticed that with only a look, his hand was perfectly smooth. "Is that all?" he asked calmly.

Dean looked around at the mess of the elevator lobby: shattered glass from the case holding the gloves, salt sprayed out all over the floor, and scorch marks on the tile. "Yep, we're good."

Sam insisted on taking the stairs, and Dean didn't see a way to refuse without sounding like an old man complaining about his aching knees. The alternative wasn't any better; his gut felt all twisted around from being yanked along by Castiel, and even the thought of pie had him making a face.

They pushed open the crash bar at the bottom of the stairs and emerged into the Cleveland night. They were on a grass-and-concrete plaza, a fountain quietly splashing off to their left, trees with the first tiny leaves of spring to the right. Dean checked his watch to find it was half past four. Only five hours to find the remains in a fourteen-story skyscraper and burn them. Not bad at all.

"Where's the car?" Sam asked.

"Down a few blocks," Dean replied, pausing for a second to orient himself and then striding confidently along. As Castiel came up beside him, he clapped a hand on the angel's shoulder. "Dude, you were pretty good back there."

"I merely did as I was told," Castiel replied serenely.

"Yeah, but it was good." Dean cleared his throat. "I'm, uh, glad you decided to stick with us."

There was something like a smile on the angel's face for a second. "I'm pleased I can be of assistance," he replied.

As they strode down the deserted downtown streets, the breeze on their faces was warm with the promise of a new day and a new season.


	25. High Noon

**A/N**: After an unfortunately-long hiatus, I finally finished this puppy off. It is no longer a WIP: all 30 pieces are done, plus an epilogue, and I'll be posting them every few days. Thanks again to kasman for the beta reading, and thanks to witchcrow01, radekris, and everyone else who nudged me to provide an ending.

**Then:** Sam and Dean knew before Dean went to Hell that he would only be there for four months, but of course they didn't know that Hell time =/= Earth time. Dean (and the first seal) broke faster because he thought it was only temporary. Sam was responsible for them knowing about the four months because he used the coin in "Wishful Thinking", but in his case it gave him the optimism he needed to ditch Ruby over the summer. The angels killed Anna because Ruby wasn't there, and Dean went into an even worse tailspin mid-season, but Sam falling prey to the siren actually got them back on track. More recently, Castiel has sided with the Winchesters against the angels.

**Now:**

**25. High Noon** (prompt 07: noon)

"Let me get this straight," Dean said as soon as they were outside the house. "Chuck sees everything that's happening to us?"

Castiel tilted his head sideways. "Not every moment, but many of them."

"Even the, uh, personal moments?" Dean asked, his cheeks faintly coloring.

"Dude, you were the one reading the book with the 'full frontal'," Sam snapped as he pushed past him. Trust Dean to be thinking about voyeurism as the worst aspect of this prophet thing.

"What's your problem?" Dean asked.

Sam whirled around, arms spread wide. "My problem is that free will just went out the window. Everything we do has already been seen by that guy in there. Whatever choices we _think _we're making, they don't matter."

"That is not entirely accurate." Castiel's calm voice cut through the air.

"What does that mean?" Sam huffed.

"Time is not entirely linear for us. It is possible to see the future, or at least the most likely future, which often hinges on a choice that has not yet been made."

"You mean there are multiple possible futures?" Sam asked.

Castiel nodded. "Unfortunately, the one that Chuck sees always comes true. And what he saw was you and Lilith."

"That's not happening." Dean's rough voice cut in. "'Cause we're getting the hell out of here."

"The hotel room he saw could have been anywhere." Castiel shook his head. "There is no use in trying to run."

"What does she want?" Sam's hands curled into fists.

"I believe she wants what you would call a showdown," Castiel said. "She knows you do not know how to defeat her, so she wants to take control of you now."

"Take control?" Dean burst out, stepping forward. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Castiel sighed. "Demons are also sometimes able to see the future. And since most of the futures I have seen have one thing in common, it is likely that Lilith knows this as well."

Sam swallowed. "What's that?"

The flat tone with which Castiel spoke was utterly at odds with the import of his words. "If Lucifer rises, you will become his vessel."

Sam hadn't realized that it was actually possible to feel the blood draining from one's face, but he did in that moment. "What?" he asked quietly but incredulously. Maybe he hadn't heard Castiel right. Maybe he really meant—

"You are Lucifer's vessel, Sam. In every future where the last seal is broken."

There was dead silence for a moment. Finally, Dean rubbed his hand over his mouth before saying, "Okay, so we get you an anti-possession tattoo for angels."

Castiel shook his head, his eyes sad. "Angels do not possess," he said. "Not in the same manner as demons. Jimmy Novak had to consent to my presence."

Sam blinked at Castiel uncomprehendingly. "If I can't be possessed…"

"You say yes." Castiel's voice was flat, unbending, and Sam suddenly understood why the angel had been so harsh to him from the start. It didn't have anything to do with his demon blood, at least not directly. It had to do with a choice it apparently would lead him to make, a choice that he couldn't even comprehend making.

Sam shook his head fiercely, denying it with every fiber of his being. "No. I would _never _do that."

"Not if Dean was in danger?" Castiel asked quietly. "Not only his life, but his soul? Not if he had been captured and imprisoned in Hell, once again being tortured and—"

"Stop!" Sam held up his hand, casting a quick glance at Dean. His brother was pale, but his jaw was clenched in fierce, familiar determination. "Look, Chuck didn't see how it ended, right? Just that Lilith and I were in the same place?"

"Apparently getting horizontal," Dean muttered.

Sam shot him a glare. "So we make preparations. We make a stand. Maybe in what Chuck saw, I was distracting her, pretending to go along with her."

"Perhaps," Castiel agreed. "But there is something else you should know."

"Now what?" Dean growled, and Sam echoed the sentiment with a frustrated gesture.

"I was not privy to all available information regarding the seals before I left my brethren, but I do know this." Castiel fixed Sam with a hard stare. "Lilith is the only one who can break the final seal. She must be defeated at all costs. But she is very old and very powerful, and the knife you carry will not harm her. I doubt any earthly weapon will."

Sam felt his gut twist at the mention of no _earthly _weapon. "But you think I can."

Castiel nodded, looking vaguely uncomfortable. "Anyone powerful enough to be Lucifer's chosen vessel would have to have that capability."

"Can we stop with the vessel crap?" Dean snapped, and Sam was more than grateful for the diversion. "What do you think, Cas? Are we making a stand here or what?"

The angel looked back and forth between them, and Sam got the sense he was looking through them, or into them, seeing something more profound than two tired and ragged men standing beside a dusty black car. But all he said was, "Yes, I think we can."

"Awesome." Dean clapped Sam on the shoulder. "I feel the need for some grease and alcohol. Let's get dinner and hatch a plan."

"Dean," Sam said, unable to voice what he was thinking, but hoping his brother could read his uncertainty and fear and need for reassurance anyway.

Dean, of course, had no problem doing all of the above. "I don't care, Sam," he said in a low tone, meeting Sam's gaze straight-on. "I don't care what he's seen or thinks he's seen. That's not gonna happen to you. Not while I'm around."

"Okay," Sam whispered. He might not know how to kill Lilith, but he knew how to trust his big brother.

He had to hope that that would be enough.


	26. The Cruelest Month

**26. The Cruelest Month** (prompt: tomorrow)

Dean burst into the motel room and stared, horrified, at the sticky red splatter all over the walls. "Sam!" he called, fear twisting his gut.

"'M fine," came a weary voice from the bathroom.

He strode over and yanked the door open. Sam was scrubbing his face and hands, his shirts in a pile on the floor, his jeans spattered with…something. "What the hell happened?" Dean demanded.

He'd been reluctantly watching the motel parking lot, devil's trap chalked onto the ground in front of their room, ready to head off Lilith if she tried to sneak out. Sam was supposed to be stalling Lilith, waiting for Castiel to arrive with Chuck, who was supposed to serve as the magnet for the archangel they expected would take out Lilith.

Then about sixty seconds ago, there'd been a light like the sun coming from _inside_ the room. The painfully bright light had been followed by a sickly wet exploding sound that had Dean running for the door while shielding his eyes, heart in his throat.

Inside, Chuck was gone, Castiel was gone, and there was a pale, still form on the bed that looked like the dead version of the woman who had been Lilith's host. That last one should be good news, Dean thought, but instead it felt like something had gone seriously wrong.

And God, did it reek in here.

"It was the archangel," Sam was saying hoarsely. "I couldn't really see, because it was so bright, but he took one look at Castiel and just...exploded him."

"Exploded him?" Dean asked, eyebrows shooting up.

Sam raised his head, and now Dean could see bits of...something...in his hair, and his stomach churned. "Aw, no," Dean groaned.

Sam grimaced and went back to washing his face and neck. "By that time, Lilith had left the building." He made a swirling upward gesture to indicate how she had managed to evade Dean.

Dean groaned and leaned back against the doorjamb. "And what about Chuck?"

Sam shrugged. "I guess the archangel took him off somewhere to protect him. _That_ part worked just fine."

"Shit." Dean rubbed his hand over his face. "So the angels are so pissed at Cas that they would blow up his host to get him out of the way? Man, poor Jimmy."

"I don't think it was just his host, Dean." Sam turned to face him, his face pink from scrubbing. "There was some kind of light coming out of him before he...you know. It was like what Uriel did to Anna."

Dean straightened up, fists clenching at his sides. "You mean they killed him?"

"I know, right?" Sam jerked a worn towel off the rack and haphazardly dried his face. "And why do that and leave me alone, if I'm such an abomination?"

"Don't say that," Dean muttered, but Sam's words were striking a chord of worry in him. He straightened up and started moving towards their bags, lifting a hand to his mouth to try and filter out some of the harsh, coppery scent that was filling the room. "We gotta get out of here in case it comes back."

"Dean, I don't think it would have had any problem taking me out along with Cas," Sam called after him. "But yeah, considering the state the room is in, leaving would probably be a good idea."

"No shit," Dean muttered. They'd pretty much been packed already, but he had their bags in the car and the weapons locked down, steadfastly not looking around the room, before Sam had wrapped a towel around his torso and grabbed another one to protect the Impala's seat from his jeans.

They were on the road four minutes later.

Half an hour passed in grim silence. Dean finally let out a gusty sigh and demanded of Sam, of the world, "So now what?"

They were supposed to be done. They were supposed to have eliminated the threat to the seals, gotten revenge on Lilith for dragging Dean into Hell, and cemented Castiel's place on the side of humanity. Instead, every one of their allies was gone. Chuck was probably on angel lockdown, Castiel was toast, and at the rate things were going, Dean couldn't contact Bobby anymore because he didn't want to be responsible for anyone else getting killed.

"I guess it's just you and me," Sam said, one knee shoved up against the glove compartment, the other canted towards the center seat. He looked exhausted, slumping back against the door, and Dean realized he hadn't even asked about Lilith yet.

"Like it's always been," Dean replied. He blew out another breath and flipped on the radio. "We'll come up with a plan tomorrow," he said, turning the volume lower so Sam could sleep.

And like so many other nights over the years, Dean drove on in silence until tomorrow came.


	27. Ashes to Ashes

**27. Ashes to Ashes** (prompt: days)

Sam stood as still as a statue, watching the flames consume the wrapped bundle on the pyre, the sparks flying skywards as the woods beyond shimmered in the heat waves from the blaze.

In a handful of days, they'd found out they had a brother, gotten used to the idea that they were no longer alone in the world, and then had him snatched away as brutally as Castiel had been taken from them. And now, another Winchester was being consumed by cleansing fire, this one lost before they'd even known him.

To his side, Dean let out a short sigh. "You doing okay?"

Sam wasn't sure whether he was asking about their vigil over their dead brother's burning corpse, or the bandaged slashes on his arms that meant he had to maintain some pretty keen concentration in order not to keel over from blood loss. He grimaced as he realized this was going to limit the amount of time he could spend practicing on the demons they'd been trapping for the last few weeks. "Yeah," he rasped. Damn smoke was getting in his throat.

"Sorry you didn't get to be a big brother for long," Dean said, nudging his arm. "Though that whole speech about how hunting has to be your entire life might have been a little over the top."

"It's true," Sam shrugged. He leaned a little into Dean, hoping he wasn't going to have to actually use his brother to prop him up. "I mean, look at us. Look at Dad."

"Yeah, look at Dad," Dean muttered. "Christ, he could have told us about Adam."

"I don't know, I think I get why he kept it a secret." Sam felt Dean staring at him, but he went on, "He was trying to protect Adam because he knew that this life is all or nothing. He'd already made the choice for us, so he wanted at least one of his kids to stay out of it."

He could feel Dean's curious gaze like a weight on him. "If that's so, then why didn't he want you to leave?"

Sam let out a breath. "Like I said, he'd made that choice for us. For me." He scuffed at the dirt with one foot. "We still don't know what he knew when he told you…what he did about me. Or how he knew it. Maybe there was another reason he wanted to keep me hunting." He wondered what their father would think about his plans to kill the most powerful demon they'd ever encountered with his _mind_, and then he figured he probably wouldn't want to know.

There was silence except for the crackling of the fire. Then Dean cleared his throat. "If Jess hadn't…you know…do you think you'd have gone back to hunting at some point?"

Sam scoffed. "I never had a choice, Dean. Not just because of Dad, but because of Yellow Eyes. If nothing else, I would have gotten dumped in Cold Oak no matter what." Castiel's words about all possible futures leading to Lucifer flitted through his mind, and he swallowed hard. "Maybe because of something worse than that, if Castiel was right."

"Yeah, well, he wasn't. Those seals aren't breaking, and you're not saying yes." Dean leaned into him more solidly, the warmth of his presence discernible even with the fire blazing in front of them.

"What kind of leads have we got?" Sam asked.

"Cas was looking into places where the final battle might go down, in case we couldn't stop Lilith from getting number sixty-five. He told me something about a convent in Maryland, and I did some digging on it before…" Dean waved his hand at the pyre in front of them. "There was this massacre of nuns a while back that might have been something demonic. Saint Mary's, something like that."

"We should check it out," Sam said.

"Yeah, we'll go in the morning," Dean replied, his eyes locked on the flames.

They stood there, leaning against each other in the early May darkness, until there were only ashes before them.


	28. Liturgy of the Hours

**28. Liturgy of the Hours** (prompt: hours)

When he was younger, Dean had idly wondered from time to time what his last words to Sam would be if he could choose them. He'd toyed with the sentimental, the gruff but caring, and the sarcastic. It wasn't like he was going to get a chance to consider it carefully when the time came, so it made for something to think about in the long, silent hours driving across the country in the dead of night.

He couldn't remember anymore what his actual last words to Sam had been, either in Cold Oak or in New Harmony, and it wasn't like it had mattered either time, anyway.

Still, for all of the times they'd prepared for a major fight or faced down death together, he'd never had a moment like this one: standing next to the Impala on the side of a dirt road in Maryland, both of them locked and loaded, sending his brother off to battle something that Dean couldn't. Something that had already taken Dean down and had even more motivation now to blast the Winchesters into dust. They were here to stop Lilith from breaking the final seal, and based on everything they'd pieced together from Chuck's words and Castiel's wisdom and their own research, Sam was the only one who could do it.

"You got the silver knife, right?" Dean asked, even though he'd seen Sam tuck it in his coat. "And the bronze one?"

"Yeah, I do," Sam replied, even though both of them knew that Castiel had said they would be useless against Lilith.

"Eh, you won't need 'em," Dean said confidently. "You're gonna blast her right out of here before she can even touch that seal."

Sam nodded earnestly, the same way he had when Dean first taught him how to use a gun, and it made something twist in Dean's chest. They'd been counting down to this moment for nearly a year—maybe for all of their lives in a sense—and now they were down to the final hours.

It had been a shock to find that Azazel had been here before they were even born, laying the groundwork for what had to be the final confrontation. As soon as Sam found that name in the newspaper records of the massacre of nuns back in '72, they'd known this was it. The weird weather patterns over the past couple of days confirmed it: swings in temperature, hail out of a clear sky, eerily red sunsets.

They talked out the plan and then went through their usual routine: cleaning the guns, stocking the salt and holy water, checking the integrity of their tattoos and adding a few extra charms around their necks for good measure. Usually it was a reassuring ritual for Dean—some people prayed the rosary, he stripped and cleaned his Colt—but this time was different. This time, he was leaving his little brother alone to face a demon.

Well, not _alone_ alone—there was no way in hell he was letting Sam out of his sight—but he was going to be on the sidelines, and that didn't seem right. Not here and now, not when it mattered the most. Dean grimaced, trying to think of something to say, some last motivation, something that didn't sound like the final words he knew they might be. Sam would see right through anything like that that he said, and they had to stay strong here.

Then Sam cleared his throat. "I know you've got my back, Dean."

"Always," he replied automatically, and that was it. That was enough. Dean looked at his brother a moment longer, wishing him luck and strength and courage and all the things he couldn't say out loud.

Then he turned and started walking towards the convent, whistling Metallica, his brother at his side, ready to save the world.


	29. The Last Minute

**29. The Last Minute** (prompt: minutes)

It was the hardest thing Sam had ever done, straining the limits of the freaky abilities he'd reluctantly learned how to use over the past year. His nose bled and his head nearly split open with pain, but he'd done it.

He'd drawn on all of the tricks he'd mastered in the past few months and reached into Lilith's new host and _pulled_. She'd lit up, incandescent, body bowed back against the altar, shaking and gasping as Sam burned the powerful demon out of its host. He'd held strong, clenching his fist and forcing the demon down into a singularity of light and then making it vanish with an audible _pop!_ He'd stood there for a moment in triumph, glorying that he'd done it: he'd avenged Dean and killed Lilith and stopped the apocalypse.

Then he'd collapsed to the floor, head pounding like a bass drum but still able to hear Dean thundering across the room towards him.

It took a minute for Sam to realize that the pounding wasn't inside his skull. Nor was it from Dean's footsteps. It was a rumbling coming from the ground, somewhere deep below them. For a second Sam flashed back to earthquake drills at Stanford, and then he remembered they were in the marshes of Maryland, and the back of his neck started to prickle.

When he lifted his head, he saw Lilith's dead eyes staring back at him, the rictus of a grin stretching her lips. Then he saw the way her blood was running down the altar steps in a solid line, curving into a circle on the floor, and a cold fear began working its way down his spine.

"Sam," Dean said as he slid to his knees beside him, one hand on his back, the other holding the flask of holy water that was the closest thing to back-up he could provide. "What's going on?"

"I don't know," he managed through the pain in his head. The lines of blood were branching, moving inward in the circle, and for a second it looked incongruously like a peppermint candy, crimson blood curving over white marble.

Then the sigil started to move, to swirl, and the cold fear grew into sheer terror. Sam lurched to his feet, pulling Dean with him. "We gotta get out of here."

He'd killed Lilith. He'd stopped her from breaking the last seal. Hadn't he? Sam's mind raced. Had she set something into motion before her death, some kind of trap that he'd unknowingly triggered? He paused for a second, but Dean pulled him on towards the doors. The ground was shaking harder now, and the chapel was suddenly illuminated by a flare of light shooting out of the circle of Lilith's blood.

"Light-Bringer," Sam gasped in sudden, horrified realization. Oh, God, what had he done?

Dean grabbed his arm and shoved him forward. "We can figure it out later, Sam, let's just get the fuck out of here!"

They reached the doors together, tugging on the handles only to find that they wouldn't budge. The blazing light behind them cast their shadows sharply on the doors, and then the noise started up, a piercing keen that had both of them clapping their hands over their ears. The shrill sound grew louder, the light blinding even behind closed eyelids, and all Sam could think was that it wasn't supposed to be like this, something had gone horribly wrong—


	30. Universal Invariant

This is the last chapter, but there will be an epilogue. Thanks to everyone who's commented!

**30. Universal Invariant** (prompt: time)

"What the hell?" Dean exclaimed.

A second ago, he'd been watching in stomach-curdling dread as Lucifer's light poured forth from the convent floor. Now he was standing in a room that looked like the overblown hotel room Sam had told him about, where Uriel had stashed him after kidnapping him in Wyoming.

"Dean! How nice to finally meet you."

He whirled around, reaching for a gun that wasn't there, to see an older man with receding hair and a car salesman's smile. "Do I know you?"

"We haven't had the pleasure. I'm Zachariah." His eyes narrowed. "Castiel's boss."

Dean stepped back, bumping against an elaborately-carved end table. A statue wobbled precariously; he grabbed for it, but it fell with a crash.

When he straightened up, the statue was on the table, whole and untouched, and Zachariah was smirking.

"What do you want?" Dean ground out. "Where's Sam?"

"Sam." Zachariah let out a sigh. "Sam's done his part, or at least the first part. Nice job killing Lilith and breaking that final seal, by the way." He gave Dean a light punch on the shoulder. "Good teamwork."

"What?" Dean's stomach sank. "We were _keeping_ her from breaking the final seal."

"Actually, you weren't. Funny story, but it doesn't matter now. You need to focus."

"What the hell are you talking about?" he demanded.

"The Sword of Michael." Zachariah gestured towards a painting on the wall. "The only way to defeat Lucifer."

Dean glanced up, seeing a pansy-assed blond with a spear stabbing a claw-footed creature at his feet. "Okay, so where can we get it?"

Zachariah shook his head like Dean was being stupid. "You _are_ it, Dean. You're Michael's sword."

He drew back, frowning. "I'm what?"

"Castiel didn't tell you?" The angel smirked. "You're his true vessel. Just as your brother is destined to be Lucifer's."

"Whoa, no." Dean shook his head. "You're oh for two, buddy."

"Dean, Dean, Dean," Zachariah said patronizingly. "Only he who broke the first seal—that's you, in case you forgot—can end it. You're the one. You have to say yes to Michael, and the two of you will take on Lucifer and triumph."

"And Sam?" Dean asked, his throat dry.

Zachariah shook his head sorrowfully. "Already gone."

"You son of a bitch, what did you do to him?" Dean demanded, grabbing fistfuls of Zachariah's jacket and shoving him against the wall.

A second later, he was staring at the blank wall, and Zachariah was speaking from behind him. "So handsy, Dean. It won't do you any good. Lucifer was almost upon you. We barely managed to get you out."

Dean shook his head, his stomach sinking. "He can't possess Sam without his consent, and Sam will never say yes. Not in a million years."

The smile on Zachariah's face was more cold and calculating than an angel's should be. "It took you what, fifteen years to say yes to Alastair? A second-tier demon who was only good for training wheels? Those who can, do, those who can't, teach, am I right?" At Dean's icy glare, he went on, "But Sam's with Lucifer now, one on one, and the only thing Lucifer needs in this world is to get inside his vessel. Even if Sam hasn't already said yes, it's only a matter of time."

"No," Dean snapped. "I don't believe you."

"Oh, Dean," Zachariah said pityingly. "You should know. No matter how strong you think you are, everyone says yes in the end."

Dean turned his back, unable to see that smarmy face without wanting to punch it. So the angels had snatched him up and left Sam to face the devil? That was one fucking fantastic reason right there not to listen, never mind the whole angel condom thing.

"I could show you the future if you say no," Zachariah growled. "Do you want that? In five years, the population will be decimated by a demonic virus, the handful of survivors doomed to succumb because you were too damn stubborn. And by then, it'll be too late. This is a limited time offer, Dean. Say yes now, and you and Michael can save the world. Say no too many times, and your entire species is doomed."

Dean wiped his hand over his mouth. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. They were supposed to have saved the world, stopped the final seal from breaking and gone home heroes. Instead, this jackass wanted to pit them against each other in a cage match, winner take all, no way out, with the whole world at stake.

"Michael's willing to throw in something extra," Zachariah said. "The slate wiped clean, anything you might have done downstairs forgiven. Front row seat in Heaven." He cocked his head to the side. "If you were to bite the big one right now, there's no guarantee you won't go right back down to the rack."

Dean shuddered. "And Sam?" he asked, his voice cracking.

Zachariah shrugged. "Out of our hands, but I'm sure Michael would be willing to ask for your brother's soul before grinding Lucifer into a pulp."

Dean closed his eyes. Was this how it was going to end? He doubted there was anywhere to run even if he found a way out, not with angels able to find him anywhere. The thought of Sam facing Lucifer…he was stronger than he gave himself credit for, but Zachariah was right: Dean _knew_ that sooner or later, everyone broke.

Maybe he couldn't save Sam anymore. But he'd made a promise years ago, and maybe there was still a way to keep it.

"All right," Dean said, turning around and looking Zachariah straight-on, despair winning out over pride. "Goddamn it. Yes!"

Zachariah smiled and started chanting as light filled the room.

Dean choked back tears and stared at the blank wall behind the angel, imagining Sam was there, wishing he could see his brother one last time to tell him that he believed in him and that he lov—


	31. A Land Where We'll Never Grow Old

The excessively-long author's note is available at my LJ if you want to read about the inspiration and logic behind this story (zuben-eschamali dot livejournal dot com / 70049 dot html). Otherwise, here's the epilogue:

**A Land Where We'll Never Grow Old**

There's a railroad trestle curving through a field of waving golden grasses, a rutted gravel track running alongside. There's a black classic car resting at a wide spot in the track, gleaming dark metal in the warmth of the midday sun. There's a tall figure leaning against the hood, legs crossed at the ankles. He's wearing ragged blue jeans and well-worn boots, plus two flannel shirts buttoned over a grey t-shirt, and he's sweating a little in the sun's warmth. He's looking out into the distance like he's waiting for someone.

Time passes.

There's the faint crunch of gravel, like a vehicle coming down the road, but it's coming from behind him. He turns in surprise to see a man in equally-battered jeans and a cracked, well-worn leather jacket climbing out of the driver's seat of what looks like the same car he's been leaning against, a smile on his face to rival the sun overhead.

"Dean," Sam says, standing up and striding towards his brother, his feet kicking up puffs of dust, a wide grin stretching his cheeks.

"Heya, Sammy," comes the warm reply, and then they're embracing, arms tight around each other, holding each other like it's been decades since they were last together.

Maybe it has been.

"Been waiting long?" Dean asks in Sam's ear, fisting his hands in the back of his shirt like he already knows the answer and doesn't want to hear it.

"You tell me," Sam says, closing his eyes and letting the sense of rightness that he's been waiting for all this time soak its way into his bones with the warmth of Dean's presence. There's sudden, fierce joy welling up inside of him, along with the peace of a promise coming true. Not that he didn't believe it would happen someday, given who'd been making the promise, but it's so damn good to be here like this, he can't even believe it.

Dean pats his back before releasing him, but he barely takes a step back. "What happened, Sam?" he asks, his voice raspy. "Why did you—" He makes an open gesture that's somehow supposed to convey the entirety of what Sam did.

Sam drops his head, remembering fire and death and horror and the way the coppery tang of blood was always in his mouth every time Lucifer allowed him to surface and see what he'd become. He hasn't thought about it for a while, but he knew that when Dean finally arrived, he'd have to at least briefly dredge up the memories. "He had the Croatoan virus," he explains. "He had a damn stockpile of it, and he was going to have his demons release it in one city every day, all around the world, until I said yes." He lifts his head, and the memory is enough to make his gaze bleak and sorrowful, even here in this peaceful place. "He said I could watch people tear apart their friends and their families, one by one, or I could let him in and be done with it. He said he'd be merciful in comparison."

"Aw, Sam." Dean's eyes hold too much pain, considering where they are. "If the damn angels hadn't yanked me away like that…"

"It doesn't matter," Sam says with a sad smile. He's had plenty of time to think, to consider the might-have-beens and the what-ifs, and he doesn't see how it could have gone any differently. Not with the hosts of Heaven and Hell arrayed against them, not with their destinies apparently written before they were born. So many possible branching points, and yet it's hard to see how they wouldn't have ended up in Detroit no matter what. "It's over, right? It's all over?"

Dean runs a hand over his jaw. "Yeah, it is. I mean, North America's pretty much a crater, but you knew that, right?"

Sam nods. He'd only caught pieces of the final battle, but after Michael had struck the fatal blow, there'd been a moment of lucidity for both of them, when Dean was freed to mourn his dying brother and Sam slipped Lucifer's tether long enough to take in the shattered world around him and give Dean a look of farewell. "I've kinda been keeping track. You know."

Dean looks around. "Don't see any clouds to peer down from." He reaches up and ruffles Sam's hair. "And dude, where's your halo? I can see why they wouldn't want to give you a harp, but what about the halo and the wings?"

Sam rolls his eyes, the reaction so familiar that his heart sings and he can't hold back a grin. "It's not like that, Dean."

Dean cocks his head to the side. "Then what's it like?" he asks, and there's a note of wariness underneath the brotherly teasing that warns Sam that there's the possibility that things up here might take a bit of getting used to.

"It's home," Sam shrugs. He reaches out and puts one hand on the Impala, who's been here with him the whole time, even if she's also how Dean arrived a moment ago. "It's—I can't explain it other than that. It's like being home." He looks at Dean, reconsidering. "Or I guess now it's like being home."

"Oh my God, you are such a sap," Dean says, but the corners of his mouth are turning up. Then he freezes. "Can I say stuff like that here?"

Sam barks out a laugh. "Say whatever you want, man."

Dean does, letting out a string of profanity and blasphemy that makes Sam's eyebrows go up. He's never heard some of those expressions, and this is the last place he would ever expect to have his vocabulary expanded like this. After a few more choice phrases, Dean finishes and looks around like he's waiting for lightning to come arcing down out of the clear blue sky. When nothing happens, he beams at Sam. "Awesome."

Sam laughs out loud, throwing his head back, and he honestly can't remember the last time he's laughed so freely and joyfully. When he looks back at Dean, the corners of his brother's eyes are crinkled with his smile, and Sam blurts out, "I'm so glad you're here, Dean." Then he ducks his head and adds, "I'm so glad _I'm_ here." It had taken a long time to get used to the idea that he was at all worthy of it, and only a personal visit from the ultimate Judge had convinced him that he was in the right place.

"Turns out demons aren't the only ones you can make a deal with," Dean says dryly. When Sam lifts an eyebrow, he goes on, "I told Michael this was where you and I were ending up, or I was going to make so much goddamn racket in this head that he wouldn't be able to hear himself think, much less wield a sword."

Sam blinks at him. "You said that?" Who is he kidding? Of _course_ Dean talked smack to an archangel to keep his little brother safe.

Dean shrugs one shoulder. "He said it was already foreordained, so it wasn't that big a deal."

"Huh." Sam files that one away to think about later. There are so many more important things to do now that Dean is here, so many people and places to see. And all of it comes without the responsibility and the guilt and the fear that hung over them for all of their lives and maybe even into their deaths, at least for a little while. Now, there's a whole world for them to explore.

He holds out the keys. "You want to drive?"

"You have to ask?" Dean retorts, snatching the keys from his hand. "I hope you didn't mess with my baby's radio again, or I'm gonna kick your ass."

Sam grins and pulls open the passenger side door, the familiar creak striking a comforting chord deep within him. Dean's sideways smirk across the roof of the Impala settles over him like the most comfortable clothing he's ever worn, and there's nothing in Sam's heart but peace and joy.

Yeah, this is definitely like being home.


End file.
